The Tank

by Nicola Lombardi

  Startled by the man’s sudden movements, Giovanni lost his balance and fell on one side. Falling, he wondered why his head felt the warmth and pressure weight of a human body. Only after impacting with the coarse and worn down moving platform, he realized he was inside the Shutter from the waist up and that he had hit the back of the other convict, who was waiting to be unloaded. He instinctively went supine, panting, on his elbows. His heart was pounding in his chest, as if it was trying to escape from it.

  In the meanwhile, Steve’s screams and Scalp’s hoarse groaning were rolling in his ears, amplified by the dark, polished walls.

  Back on the Ring, Giovanni had to jump not to trip on Scalp, who was trying to get up. He was on his knees, his head still on the ground, looking like he was peeping through a hole in the floor. His cheeks, which were bright red when he was hit in the groin, now were almost grey.

  Despite his current state of pain, he managed to growl. “Watch...the elevator...”

  Giovanni brought one hand to the holster of gun opened it and extracted the Beretta. Hurried steps came from the Dark Side. Steve was following Lucas, whose intentions were imponderable. What hope did he have to survive? Did he think he could best three armed men and escape? He had no chance.

  No bullet had been shot. The manual did allow the use of firearms inside the Tank, that much was true, but only in case of extreme need. And that, unless the situation deteriorated, was still a case that could be solved without recurring to guns.

  Lucas showed arrived to the other side of the Ring. He was stumbling, his hands tied behind his back. Alerted by Scalp’s words, Giovanni was ready to stop him from entering the elevator - whose doors were still open - but the convict went past it and rushed towards him head on. Steve appeared behind the fugitive’s back, his sub-machine gun aimed at him and his teeth showing behind a furious grin.

  “Stop, you son of a bitch!” He ordered with a not completely firm voice.

  Lucas, lunging forward with all his weight, completely lost balance. If Giovanni hadn’t moved swiftly, the convict would have fallen over him. Moreover, they would probably have fallen of Scalp’s back...but the Guard, having mustered enough strength to stand up, was quick enough to get out of the way; Lucas fell face first, sliding his nose on the linoleum for a meter or so. With a quick movement he turned on, pointing his bloody face towards the astonished observers. His septum had taken a weird shape, bleeding heavily.

  Scalp, now stable on his legs - even if a bit stooped, a mask of fury and pain twisting his face - was pointing his FS 93 to the convict’s forehead using both hands, his arms extended. Steve, who had re-gained control of his gun, was aiming for the lower abdomen.

  Giovanni, after a quick reflection, decided it was time to holster his Beretta. An armed intervention on his side would have been appropriate (dutiful even) if the EGs were in a situation of objective difficulty, as the manual said. But now everything was under control again.

  The silence in which the four men started at each other was blown away by a toneless voice that left everyone a bit disoriented.

  “Lucas?...what the hell are you doing, lying on the ground?”

  By the Shutter’s door, Adriano was staring at his accomplice like a drunken man trying to understand what was happening, failing to do so. It was a really grotesque sentence. The Guards gave him an annoyed look. Giovanni, maybe for the impelling need relieve the tension, thought that the tragicomical joke could even make him laugh, in a different situation. For a second he feared he would burst into an hysterical laughter and he started sucking on the cut he had on his tongue.

  “Quiet, you!” Scald said without taking his eyes off Lucas. “And go back in, if you don’t want us to break your face, too!”

  Adriano muttered something incomprehensible to his partner, then went back on his steps and started banging his forehead on the Suffering, like a penitent faithful on the Wailing Wall.

  After spitting a red clot which landed close to Scalp’s boot, Lucas grunted: “Come on, shoot me, if you have the courage. Nazi bastard, you and everyone like you...shoot, you coward! Let’s see if you still have the balls, after what I did to them!”

  Giovanni’s breath condensed into a cloud of frost, clogging his lungs. Stave gave his colleague an alarmed look, probably expecting him to shoot the convict without thinking about it twice.

  But Scalp was unmoved and his lineaments went back to his usual neutral expression. “You’re smart.” He commented calmly. “But not enough.” He nodded towards Steve and Giovanni. “Pick him up.”

  The two didn’t hesitate. Giovanni bent down and put one arm under Lucas’ right armpit. Steve did the same on the left side and, with a certain effort, made the dealer, on whose light blue shirt a red, damp tie seemed to have materialised. The man kept staring at Scalp, but at that point his arrogant look had already changed into something very similar to terror.

  He barely managed to whisper: “Shoot me, pig. Shoot me, damn you...”

  Scalp didn’t move e Giovanni admired him for that extremely lucid reaction. An example to follow.

  “I know you would like it.” He stepped away, maybe to avoid another kick from Lucas. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you’re not the first to try. A bullet in the head is thousands of times better than what awaits you down there...too easy, man. Too easy.”

  Then, nodding towards the Shutter. “Put him in.”

  Lucas tried to free himself, spitting insults and blasphemy together with blood and saliva. But Giovanni and Steve tightened their grip, pulling him in front of the entrance; at that point Scalp, after holstering his gun, raised a leg and kicked him in the kidney with the sole of his boot. Lucas fell on his partner, who was waiting for him in a catatonic state, pushing him against the Suffering in a whirl of moans and jingling vibrations.

  “Close it.” Scalp ordered.

  Giovanni, overflowing with adrenaline, rushed to the push-button panel.

  The door closed with its fatal puff. Lucas, on the other side of the glass, turned towards the Ring and started shouting words that the thick panel suffocated to a whimper. Understating him was impossible, but his bloody and terrified face was more than eloquent.

  The Keeper was autonomous again; yet it was spontaneous of him to look at Scalp before proceeding to the Unloading. The Guard agreed silently, a tired look on his face, and only then Giovanni pressed the button that (clang) opened the Suffering and (zzzzzz) activated the moving platform.

  The blurred silhouette swaying behind Lucas, Adirano, disappeared immediately, swallowed by the hungry, black void. But Lucas didn’t.

  For a moment Giovanni was overwhelmed by the fear that the mechanism had jammed a Manual Discharge - a simple push - would be necessary as explained in the manual. But things were different. He was walking.

  Matching the speed of his steps to the platform, as if he was on a treadmill, he kept staring at Giovanni, who was frozen in front of the door, safe in the cold light of the Ring. Shouting was a waste of energy, so he had stopped. He barely moved his lips, red with the blood still dripping from his broken nose, keeping his desperate and furious gaze of the Keeper. The opaque glass prevented them from seeing the tears on his face, but his eyes were probably swollen.

  None of the guards talked. They just stood there, like Giovanni, watching that absurd scene, exhaling excited breaths from their nostrils.

  Giovanni felt almost hypnotised. The man on the other side of the glass would soon fall into the abyss. The conclusion to that sinister farce was inevitable. Yet he kept walking, franticly, his head shaking from the effort, panting, grinding his teeth. Behind him, the maws of the Tank were waiting patiently.

  The Keeper’s face, reflected in the lead-coloured crystal of the door, overlapped with the one of the dying man, eyes over eyes. The just on one side, the unjust on the other. Giovanni was sure he wouldn’t move nor avert his gaze until the other would fall. And despite not being able to see them he knew that Scalp and Steve would do the same. They
would watch, motionless, until the end. There would be no surrender, no shame, no fear on their side.

  The scene seemed to crystallise and dilate; the heavy droning of the platform intertwined with the sharp one of the neon lights, whole hearts and lungs were beating the rhythm of tribal dances as old as life itself. But what seemed to have no end was over in couple of minutes.

  Lucas suddenly pronounced a sentence, short and peremptory; a fluid movement of the lips slipping directly into Giovanni’s subconscious. Then he simply stopped walking and closed his eyes. It was as if an invisible, clawed hand had grabbed him, dragging him backwards with bad grace. He disappeared in an instant, leaving a small halo of vapor in his stead, which soon dissolved and became a memory.

  Scalp’s solid voice imposed itself readily: “You don’t need to count to thirteen, Keeper. We have used way too much current already.”

  Giovanni tuner towards him, the skin of his arms still crawling with excitement. He quickly turned back to the panel, pushed the Unloading button again and in three second no more noise came from the Shutter. The silence that followed bloated like a soundless explosion against his eardrums, making the circular walls of the Ring waver at the sides of his field of view.

  “Good job, Keeper Corte. I will mention your behavior in the report.”

  Scalp talked like a high officer, despite being a simple EG. But Giovanni didn’t care: he could act like the Supreme President of the NMO and it still wouldn’t matter. His words were flattering and he thought that the report would even end up on Stevanich’s desk. The suasive touch of gratification slightly relieved the pain he felt in his stomach. He thought that maybe the convict-sedation operators wouldn’t be glad about Scalp and Steve’s report, but that didn’t interest him. If someone had made a mistake, it was only right that they payed for it. Because of somebody not doing his job, Giovanni had an ugly fifteen minutes. An awful fifteen minutes.

  “Thanks, Sc...” He managed to shut up in time, and had the presence of mind to swallow loudly, simulating embarrassment.

  Scalp smiled slightly, then started to turn towards the lift. Giovanni, wanting to be thoughtful, spontaneously asked him a question: “Are you all right?”

  The Guard turned back towards him, raising an eyebrow.

  “Down there, I mean.” Giovanni specified, hoping his words didn’t sound mocking.

  Scalp stared at him for a few seconds; then, keeping a serious expression, he answered: “I’ll let my wife judge.”

  For at least five seconds one could hear a midge fly. Was it possible that Scalp had just told a joke? Steve’s chuckle, which similar to a raspberry, confirmed it.

  Giovanni nodded contritely and Scalped did the same before adding in a low voice: “I feel better now. Thanks.”

  The second Guard bade Giovanni farewell by informally touching his own forehead with two extended fingers. Before turning around to follow his partner he pointed with the barrel of his sub-machine gun to a spot on the floor. “Can you clean it?”

  Giovanni followed with his eyes the imaginary line that went from the weapon to the dark blood stain left on the floor by Lucas’ nose.

  “Sir, yes, sir.” He said with camaraderie It was practically the first time since he started working there that he could see a small breach in the EGs’ martial rigor. It pleased him. But as soon as the cabin’s clanging noise softened, down at the Tank’s feet, the grin he had managed to put on his face vanished.

  He was alone again. In complete silence. With the Shutter’s door staring at him...but no, it wasn’t the door. It was the darkness. The darkness stagnating on the other side. And the wild eyes of all those who were drowning in there.

  Without hesitating he went to his apartment, took a damp scrubbing brush from the bathroom and started erasing the last visible remnants of the incident.

  ***

  It wasn’t possible to recognise the newcomers at the center of the Well. Some convicts were upside down, legs wiggling from the dying, disordered mass. They reminded him of a mouse’s rear legs, half swallowed by a python. Maybe Lucas was one of those, plummeting down and sticking among the other bodies head down...

  Giovanni suddenly shivered and gagged. He though he had gotten used to that condensed agony. He clearly still had to. And train his stomach. Moreover, the prostration he felt was intensified by the word uttered by the man who could boast the longest Unloading time ever. “I’m waiting for you”, he said. Maybe he was talking about all of them...he preferred interpreting it that way, since being personally addressed - even if by a man driven mad by fear and fury - disquieted and annoyed him. Those weren’t things he should brood on, he knew that. During training, the instructors had warned them about possible aggressions (more verbal than physical) by the convicts, testing the reactions of each candidate when faced with aggravating solicitations. He had passed them with flying colours and now all those thoughts were making him feel inadequate.

  However, after three months in the Tank, his weakening defenses were justified. He had had his share of emotional blows, locked in there with only the company of books, TV, and dying men. The psychologist had told him so. Three months. Already one quarter of the way. Or only one quarter?

  It was irrelevant. He had to go on, one step after the other, one day after the other. The calendar was already missing two sheets and the third would soon be gone, in forty-eight hours. It was all right.

  ***

  A laconic message appeared on the Postman’s screen just before dinner (rabbit meat with salad, but he wasn’t in a rush). “Good behaviour with problematic subject.”

  Giovanni read that line over and over again, trying to get some satisfaction out of it. What could he expect? Compliments and praise for doing his job? In the NMO few formal words could have immense value. That message was satisfying. Not like a handshake from a superior, but in his position it was the best he could get. He wondered if positive and negative notes had an impact on his compensation. There was nothing about it on the documents he had signed and he didn’t know whether to wish for it or fear it. Lacking the elements needed to come to a conclusion he input a simple “Thank you”, left the Control and went to dinner.

  Watching an old movie starring Spencer Tracy, his mouth full of badly cooked meat, he muttered: “Happy birthday, Giovanni.”

  He felt a fit of nostalgia for the days that would never come back - the ones from his childhood, when he celebrated with his mom and dad in the most pure serenity, before that drunken driver tore them away from him - and almost cried.

  “You won’t start crying now, will you?” He said his father jokingly when he had blown over the sixteen candles on the last cake they would ever eat together.

  “Nah,” Giovanni had laughed. “The smoke got into my eyes.”

  His father had laughed, looking at his wife, who was watching her son in silence.

  Giovanni still remember what they gave him as a present that day: a couple of novels, a black sweater with his initials knit on his heart and a silver fountain pen, a perfect imitation of those popular at the beginning of the Twentieth century. He had tried it immediately, writing a slightly crooked Thank you! on the back of the red paper in which the gift had been wrapped. His mother had kissed him on his cheek (she knew that Giovanni would forbid her were they in public, but at home there was nothing that could stop her). His father, on the other hand, had slapped him on the back of the neck, a gesture that showed how proud he was of him. Who knew how they would react to his application to the NMO? And where did that fountain pen end up? And the sweater with the letters GC knit in yellow, which looked like to weird moons on a night sky? Giovanni couldn’t answer those questions. Many, way too many things that had been part of his life once had been lost, or they had simply hidden, waiting to be found, but he had stopped looking for them...

  “Mom?” He whispered. “Dad?” He closed his eyes, wishing he could hear their voices say his name once more. But the only imaged that filled the darkness of his mind was th
at of his parents lying on the morgue’s table, motionless under the two white, red stained sheets, lifted by the hand of the nurse so that Giovanni could say “Yes, it’s them.” And hadn’t said it, he had screamed it before exiting from that white and winter-cold room, sobbing...

  He suddenly opened his eyes. He managed to hold his tears, because he knew that letting his emotions overwhelm him wouldn’t help. But it was difficult, very difficult.

  ***

  Nemo me impune lacessit, so it was written on the wall over his bed. That man had hit him. And he didn’t go unpunished. He got what he deserved, nothing less. But...it had been an awful feeling, being inside the Shutter for even a very short amount of time. Who knew what those who couldn’t get out felt. Many things had happened that afternoon, so fast that he had had no time to assimilate them. But the night is meant brooding. The human mind had the desperate need to, that he wanted it or not. Lying on his bed, Giovanni gave in to the images, sounds and feelings that overflowed behind his closed eyes. He saw the faces of the guards and the convicts, their expressions, their gazes; he saw the blood, heard the screams and the insults; over and over again he thought about those words - I’m waiting for you - on the bloody lips; and while the first butterflies started flying among his thoughts, a sense of vertigo deceived him with the illusion of falling. Lazy and calm at first, then growing more and more inexorable.

  Where is my island? he wondered, falling, plummeting like one of the convicts that were dying, slowly, a few meters away from him. Few meters from the dreams and the sunny island waiting for him. Is it still sunny, down there? But where was down there? In a marvelous, persuasive other place? Or maybe the dark lair of meat and suffering, heart and stomach of the Tank? He couldn’t answer.

  There were no more paths to follow. The whole universe was at the mercy of the butterflies, the blood and the tears. The last image that Giovanni could see, grasping it with a splinter of consciousness, was Lucas drowning head first in that obscene swamp of agony. He could almost hear the noise, the sucking, lamenting noise, so unbearable that one could lose his mind, listening to it for too long.