The Hollow City

by Dan Wells

  My skull feels like it’s breaking apart, cracking open like an egg, and I grab it desperately, trying to hold the pieces together. The buzz comes again, stronger this time, and I scream to drown it out.

  “Come on, Mike,” says Devon, and then he leaves at a run. I stay in the corner, clutching my head until it feels normal again. Nothing’s broken. I hear a voice at the door.

  “New guy.”

  I look up. My door is closed.

  “Hey new guy, you awake?”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Not the best way to start your freedom, shoving a nurse.”

  “I didn’t mean to, he was…” He was buzzing. “He was attacking me.”

  “You’re acting like an idiot, and they don’t let idiots leave.”

  I raise my head. What was that guy’s name—the one from the hall? “Are you Steve?”

  “They are always watching us,” he says. “Always watching.”

  “The doctors?”

  His voice is a thin whisper. “The Faceless Men.”

  I scramble to the door, half crawling, slipping on the slick linoleum. Footsteps run away, pelting down the hall, and when I yank open the door the hallway’s empty.

  I whisper as loud as I can. “Steve!” There’s no answer. I poke my head out into the hallway and look down through the commons room to the TV on the far side; there’s a swarm of activity by the nurse’s station. I slide back into my room and push the door closed.

  Someone’s trying to warn me, which means I’m not the only one who knows. I don’t think it’s Steve. Is the hospital part of the Plan? Are they in on it, or just pawns? Whoever it was was right; the Faceless Men are here. Somehow, maybe in the MRI, they put something into my head that lets them control me, and whenever they want they can flip a switch and make me see things and hear things and do things—whatever they want me to do. Even if I leave I’m a prisoner.

  Unless I can find out how it works, and how they find me.

  I pull the blanket off my bed and cover the radio. With the sensors neutralized, I reach behind the dresser and pull out the plug, killing it completely. But a lot of these clock radios have batteries, in case of a power outage. Can it still broadcast without being plugged in? I grab the blanket, take a deep breath, and yank it off. The screen is blank; it doesn’t have batteries.

  Unless the batteries only power the transmitter, with no juice left for the screen.

  I need water; with a glass of water I could short it out. What would the doctors say—do they know I’m being watched? Are they part of the Plan, or just pawns in it? I throw the blanket back over the clock, just in case, and probe the rest of the room, looking for cameras—for anything else they might be using to watch me. I can’t find anything.

  “Michael?”

  I turn around; Devon’s back, with Dr. Little and another nurse. I stand up, tense and embarrassed from being caught. Do they know what I was looking for?

  Dr. Little steps forward. “Are you okay, Michael? Devon said you were having a seizure.”

  I glance at Devon; he caused it, didn’t he? Is this an act, to make me trust them, or do they really not know? Maybe Devon has an implant as well, and they use him to get to me.

  “Michael?” asks Dr. Little.

  “I’m fine,” I say quickly. Whatever they did to me was real—it hurt, it was a real pain—but I don’t tell them. “It was just … it was nothing.”

  “You pushed Devon,” says Dr. Little sternly. “Do you think that’s an acceptable behavior?”

  My heart sinks. “No, sir.”

  “We let you out of your restraints, despite your violence at the hospital, because you promised to act peacefully. Do you need to be restrained again?”

  “No sir, no I don’t.” I swallow hard, trying not to look at Devon. “It’s just that … it’s not going to happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” says Dr. Little, and then the smile comes back to his face. “I’m glad we have an understanding. While I’m here, you’ll be pleased to know that you already have a visitor, or at any rate a visitor request. I told her that our visiting hours were over for the evening, but she’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

  “Who?”

  “A friend of yours.”

  FIVE

  LUCY ARRIVES JUST AFTER BREAKFAST—oatmeal and apple juice and Loxitane, served on a tray and delivered from a thick plastic cart, like a rolling cupboard. I think I could fit inside that cart; if I was able to crawl in when nobody’s looking, I could hold very still and they’d pull me right through the gate to freedom.

  “Michael!” Lucy runs across the commons room, grabbing my hand for a moment before throwing her arms around me in a massive hug. I close my eyes, feeling her heart beat against me. She kisses my ear, and I feel her tears wet against my skin. “Oh, Michael, Michael,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I came as soon as I heard.”

  “It’s okay.”

  She pulls back and takes my hand in hers, looking down with concern. “It’s not okay.” She’s beautiful. She’s dyed her hair again—back to black this time, covering the bright purple streaks she had a few weeks ago. She sees me looking at it and shrugs, reaching up to twist a strand in her fingers. “I didn’t know if they’d let me in here any other way. I don’t mind; I like black.” She pulls up a chair and sits next to me, comforting and familiar: her worn black jeans, her old black T-shirt, the smile in the corners of her mouth.

  I hold her hand. “Where have you been? The hospital couldn’t reach you, and I thought something had happened.”

  “They probably have an old number,” she says. “I had to move kind of suddenly. But where have you been, that’s the question. I’ve been looking for you for weeks. I thought you’d had another depressive attack or something, but your dad said you hadn’t come home.”

  “He actually talked to you?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Sort of. He still hates me. But this time he wasn’t ignoring me, he was accusing me of running off with you. I put two and two together and figured he couldn’t find you either.”

  I look around quickly; we’re getting some looks from the other patients, but none of them are close enough to hear, and the only doctor in the room is on the far side, holding some kind of therapy session by the TV. I lean in close to Lucy, whispering softly.

  “I was running from someone.”

  Her face goes solemn. “Who?”

  I gesture discretely at the room around us. “Who do you think? I’m not sure of the details, but…” I lean closer. “Do you remember when I used to tell you there were people watching me?”

  “Yeah, but you never told me who. Is it these guys—the hospital?”

  I’ve never told her the truth before. Will she believe me? Will she think I’m crazy? I don’t know if I dare tell her everything. “I’m not sure of all the details, because I’ve lost some memory, but about two weeks ago They made some kind of move—or at least I think They must have, because something prompted me into action, and I went on the run. I left home, I stopped going to work, I was hiding out … somewhere. Dr. Vanek said the police found me under an overpass, but I must have run because I fell out of a window. That’s when they finally caught me.”

  “You fell?” She puts a hand on my head, feeling for lumps. “Are you okay? Is that why you lost memory?”

  “I think so, or it might be the…” It might be the MRI, reacting with the implant, but I don’t say that out loud. I can’t bear the thought of her looking at me the way the doctors do, like I’m some kind of helpless head case. “Listen, it’s not important how they caught me, what matters is that I need to get out of here. This is not like last year when I spent two weeks in recovery for anxiety—this is serious. They’ve trumped up a big fake diagnosis so they can hold me indefinitely; something called schizophrenia.”

  She shakes her head. “Multiple personalities?”

  “No, that’s something else. Schizophrenia is like I’m hallucinating or someth
ing—like an official stamp that invalidates everything I say. As long as they tell people I’m crazy, they can hold me in here and observe me and do anything they want with me. I think they might even be experimenting on me.”

  Lucy snarls. “Bastards. Why do they want you?”

  I say nothing, staring into her face. She stares back, angry and worried and trusting. I take a deep breath—I won’t tell her everything, but I can tell her some.

  “They think I have something to do with the Red Line Killer.”

  “What?” She practically shouts it, and I quiet her quickly, hissing through my teeth.

  “Keep it down!”

  “They think you’re the Red Line?”

  “Dr. Vanek said they did, but no one’s asked me any questions yet. How much do you know about the case?”

  “Not much,” she says, “just stuff I’ve overheard in the restaurant. Why do they think it has anything to do with you?”

  “Because the victims were all…” I can’t mention the Faceless Men—she doesn’t know about them. “They were all from the Children of the Earth.”

  “Milos Cerny’s cult?”

  I nod. Milos Cerny was the man who killed my mother. “I need you to find out more,” I say. “Find out everything you can—who the Red Line’s killed, and when, and how, and what the Children have to do with it. I’m going to do what I can to get out of here, but I don’t want you tied up in that—I don’t want to give Them any excuse to come after you too.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she says, “but … who are They?”

  “I can’t tell you right now,” I say, “just please, trust me, and I’ll tell you as soon as I can. You should go now.”

  And suddenly there’s the look—not as bad as I’d feared, not as blatant, but it’s there. She’s doubting me. I feel tears growing hot behind my eyes. “Please, Lucy—please. I’m not crazy.”

  She purses her lips, thinking, then finally nods. “I believe you.”

  “Thank you. Now go, and be careful.”

  She leans in and kisses me, then squeezes my hand and turns to go. There are tears in her eyes. The other patients in the room are watching me, some quick and sharp, eyes darting to and fro, others staring slack-jawed, like they’re not even seeing me at all. Which ones should I be afraid of?

  I take another bite of oatmeal, but it’s gone cold. I scan the room subtly, looking for Faceless Men, looking for cameras, looking for anything they might use to trigger my implant or read my mind. There’s a clock on the wall, black hands like scissors snapping closed on the number 10. Can a clock send a signal? What’s hiding behind it? They call it a clock face—what if it means—

  “Michael?”

  I turn with a start. The woman from before is standing behind me: the reporter.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, “I seem to be making a habit of startling you. I don’t mean to.”

  “You…” I feel wordlessly uncomfortable.

  “Kelly Fischer,” she says, holding out her hand, “from the Sun.”

  I don’t take her hand. “You’re here.”

  “Thanks for keeping quiet about me.” She pulls up a chair and sits. “You kind of freaked me out before, about you being a suspect, but my editor said to talk to you anyway—you’re not officially a suspect yet, so if I interview you now, before they announce it, we can scoop everybody else.”

  Something about her feels wrong, somehow. I watch her carefully. She watches me, waiting for something, and when I don’t speak she leans forward, putting a hand on my knee. “Obviously we’re going to do everything we can to get you out of here, just like I promised.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  “We’re on your side, Michael, you’ve got to know that.” She pulls her notebook and pen from her purse and holds them up. “No recorder, like you said; just the pen. Now my friend at the hospital tells me you’ve lost some memory, is that correct?”

  I watch her carefully, trying to analyze her words. What is she really after? It doesn’t give her anything to confirm what she already knows, so I shrug. “Yeah.”

  “About two weeks’ worth?”

  I nod.

  “Listen, Michael, you’re going to have to be a little more talkative than this. Do you have any idea where you might have been during the two weeks you can’t remember?”

  I study her face, warring with myself—do I say nothing? Do I say everything? How do I know where to stop in the middle? “Most of it’s a haze,” I say. “I can remember some things, silly things I guess, like a water faucet handle, but I don’t know where I was or why. I was under an overpass when the police found me, but I must have run because I fell out of a window. That’s when they finally … caught me.”

  I get the most horrible feeling of déjà vu, and feel myself grow nauseous.

  “Let’s go back further, then,” she says. “Have you had any contact with the Children of the Earth since you were an infant?”

  “No, none.”

  “You haven’t gone looking for them, or found any members of the cult?”

  “Why would I go looking for them?”

  “I’m grasping at straws here, Michael; if you’d say something substantive I wouldn’t have to drag it all out of you like this.”

  “What do you expect me to say?”

  “You told me before that you hated the Children of the Earth,” says Kelly, “and you said you’d sooner kill one than associate with him. What I’m asking is, did you ever act on that?”

  The nervous flutters swirl sickly through my chest. “What?”

  “You obviously hated them, you’ve obviously thought about it, and you proved at the hospital that you’re more than capable of violence when something sets you off. I don’t think it’s out of the question to ask if you ever thought about acting on your hatred.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

  “This is very important.”

  “I’m not a killer!”

  People are looking at us now. Even the doctor in the corner looks up from her therapy session.

  “I’m not a killer,” I hiss. “They’re the ones who are following me—I’m the victim here!”

  “Whoa,” says Kelly, her eyes going wide, “you say they’re following you? The Children of the Earth?”

  I grumble and shake my head, feeling the nervous flurry rising in my chest. “Not them, it’s … I’m not crazy, okay? All I wanted was to get away. I didn’t hurt anyone, I just left, and I need to leave again before they get what they want—”

  “What do they want?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Excuse me,” says a woman—the doctor from the therapy session—“is there a problem?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, struggling to calm down. I can’t let them see me like this—I’m not crazy. “I’m fine.”

  “Why don’t we go to your room, alright?” asks the doctor. She helps me to my feet. “You’re doing great, Michael, you’re not in any trouble, we’re just going to have a little rest.”

  “I don’t need a rest.”

  “I know you don’t, but some of the other patients do, and we don’t want to disturb them with shouting.”

  “Wait,” I say, “I have one more—”

  I turn to ask Kelly a question, but she’s gone.

  SIX

  THE DRUGS, AS FAR AS I can tell, do nothing. It’s been a week now—seven days—and I’ve had no more visits from Lucy or the reporter. I’ve tried to contact my secret ally, whoever he is, but he doesn’t answer. I’m alone.

  They give me oatmeal, they give me pills, they come and they go. The doctor who took me back to my room, Linda Jones, invites me to her therapy sessions, but I’m too smart for that. She’s just trying to get me into the corner where the TV can mess with my head.

  I’ve cataloged every electronic device in the secured wing: a computer and a TV in the nurses’ station, an electric lock on the gate, a TV and an analog clock on the commons room wall, a digi
tal clock in every bedroom, two security cameras in the main hall, two smoke alarms in the main hall, and another smoke alarm in the restroom. Every angle is covered; every corner is filled. There’s nowhere They can’t see me.

  When I pour water on my digital clock they replace it; that’s how I know that it worked. If I ever need to disappear again, I can kill the clock with just a little cup of water.

  On the seventh day I’m standing in the hall, watching Devon on the far side of the room. Is he watching me? Is he real—is his face real? He smiles, and the muscles move believably under the skin. Another nurse walks past me toward the gate, and I turn to watch as she types in the code on the keypad: 6, 8. She shifts to the side and I lose my view; the gate clicks open and she walks out, closing it firmly behind her. 6 and 8. How many more numbers are there? The nurse turns a corner out of sight and another form steps into view—a Faceless Man, tall and straight in a slim gray suit, standing just beyond the gate. He looks at me—even with no eyes I can tell he’s looking straight at me, his face a distorted blur. I don’t move, and neither does he.

  Something touches my shoulder and I spin around, frightened, but it’s only Devon.

  “Someone’s here to … whoa, Mikey, are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “There’s someone there.” I spin back, pointing at the Faceless Man, but he’s gone, and in his place are two men standing just beyond the gate, their faces calm and normal, their suits black instead of gray. “He was right there,” I say, stepping forward anxiously. I try to see behind the men, but I feel the buzz of the computer monitor and shy back. I look at Devon. “Did you see him?” I look back at the men in the hall. “He was right there—did you see him? You must have walked right past him!” I’m shouting now. “He was a man without a face—did you see him?”

  The men look at each other, and one of them, an Asian man, raises an eyebrow. They think I’m crazy.

  “Easy, Mikey, there’s nobody there. Okay? Just take it easy.”

  “Don’t tell me to take it easy.” I’m supposed to be convincing them I’m sane, not freaking out like this. “It was just … a joke, Devon, it was just a joke.” That’s a stupid line, of course he won’t believe it. I crane my neck to see over the men to the hall beyond. The Faceless Man might be just out of sight behind a corner.