by Hakok, R. A.
The man called Mac pulls down something that might once have been a scarf. His skin is even darker than his companion’s, the eyes that stare back at me black as coals. A patchy beard, straggled and unruly, salted with gray, covers the lower half of his face.
‘Quit your yappin’, Goldie. It’s getting late, and we have a ways to go yet.’
*
WE LEAVE THE INTERSTATE behind and continue north. Crumbling strip malls slowly give way to houses with yards, then snow-covered fields. After a couple of miles the road branches at a water tower and we take the westerly fork. We keep to it for what seems like a long time. I close my eyes and try to recall what was on the map for this stretch, but as far as I can remember there wasn’t much of anything. I really hope we don’t have much farther to go. The last of the light’s already draining from the sky and the temperature’s dropping fast now; I can feel the ice-crust forming on the powder beneath my snowshoes. I flex the muscles in my wrists to keep the blood flowing, but the cord’s too tight; my fingers are already numb. All I can do is I hold them to my face and blow into them to try and keep them warm.
We continue on, following the beams from the flashlights. The tall man stays quiet, but the other one, the one with the impressive dentistry, likes to talk. He keeps it up without pause. Mostly it’s variations of the same thing, repeated over and over. Somebody called Finch is going to be very happy to see me. That seems to bode well for him, although it’s unclear yet what it might mean for me. I find myself wishing for our destination in spite of it. Anything to get out of the bone-splitting cold.
We trudge up a long, straight section and then, just as I think we’re about to start down into the shallow beyond, Mac takes a turn I hadn’t even spotted was there. I search for a sign, any clue as to where we might be headed, but there’s nothing. The road narrows to little more than a track. We follow it for an hour, maybe more, our snowshoes crunching through the ice-slicked snow as it winds ever upward. At last we reach the ridgeline and now I see what must be our destination. In what little remains of the light I can make out little more than its size: a huge, walled fortress, sitting alone in the valley beneath us.
We make our way down towards it. Goldie grows more excited. He pushes me forward, jabbering continuously, barely stopping to draw breath. As we get closer I can see that the fortress’s high stone walls are topped with tangled coils of barbed wire. A guard tower stares down from each corner. The nearest one on the western side looks like it’s been set ablaze; there’s little left of its structure other than a few charred beams, poking up into the darkening sky.
My heart sinks as I realize a building like this could only have one purpose.
Mac sets course for a tall iron gate that dominates the closest side. A rusting sign above confirms my fears: it announces we have arrived at Starkly Correctional Institution. Kane used to say if we were to happen upon others while out scavenging we were to give them a wide berth; that if there was anyone still left after all this time they’d most likely be desperate, dangerous men, lawless and Godless. Our President had his reasons for keeping us fearful, I know that now. But it gives me little comfort that my captors may not have had much of the law about them, even before the world fell apart.
We stop in front of the entrance. The gate towers above us; it must be three times as high as I am tall. Mac steps up to a smaller door set into the thick, riveted metal and pounds on it with his fist. After a long pause a latch slides back. A second later from somewhere behind there’s the sound of bolts being drawn and the door creaks open.
I bend to undo my snowshoes. Goldie’s eager to get inside now; he snaps at me to hurry, but my frozen fingers aren’t up to the task of working the bindings. I finally manage one, but the second proves more stubborn. In the end he loses patience and shoves me. I trip over the foot that’s still tethered and stumble forward. I try to get my hands out in front of me, but they’re bound together and slow with the cold. My head bounces off the edge of something hard and then I’m falling through the door. I land awkwardly on the other side and just lay there for a moment, stunned, staring up at a wire-mesh sky. I feel something wet trickling down one side of my face, already growing sluggish in the frigid air. I raise my hands tentatively, trying to direct them to the spot. It takes longer than it ought. When I hold them out in front of me they’re smeared with blood.
Something tugs at my boot and then rough hands grab me under my arms and haul me to my feet. I look around. I’m in some sort of holding pen. In front there’s a step-through metal detector, like the one we had in the tunnel in Eden; beyond it a barred gate. Somewhere off in the darkness an indifferently muffled generator chugs away, marking out uneven time.
A small man sits in a glass-fronted booth, off to one side. At his elbow a low flame gutters in something that might once have been a candle, but is now little more than a pool of wax. The glass is pocked with frosted impact points, thin cracks spider-webbing out from the center of each. The pane seems to have been designed with such an assault in mind, however, because it’s held.
Mac shucks off his backpack and approaches the booth. A metal tray slides out. He pulls a handgun from his coat, ejects the magazine and drops both in. Goldie does the same with his weapon, then digs in his pocket for Hicks’ pistol. He pushes it up against the glass.
‘I got to show this to Mr. Finch.’
The man behind the glass appears to consider the request for a moment, then simply says Bullets.
Goldie studies the pistol, turning it over in his hands, like he doesn’t know how to work it. After a moment he holds it out to me, an irritated expression souring his dark features. My fingers are too numb to do it for him, so I explain through chattering teeth how he has to pull the hammer back to open the loading gate and then use the plunger to eject each round from its chamber. He struggles with it for a while before Mac steps over and takes it off him with a grunt. His fingers work the mechanism smoothly, rotating the cylinder so that one by one the bullets rattle into the bottom of the tray. When it’s empty the man behind the glass draws the tray back. Goldie holds his hand out sullenly, and after a brief pause Mac gives the pistol back. It disappears into the folds of his clothing and then I’m being shoved forward again, in the direction of the metal detector. I tell him the dog tags I wear will set it off. He cusses me a few more times while he stops to yank them from my neck, and then I get pushed through.
Mac takes his turn after me. There’s a loud beep as Goldie steps up to it. He turns to the man in the booth and pulls back his lips, pointing to his teeth.
‘C’mon, man. Every time?’
There’s a pause and then the gate buzzes and I’m hustled through into a large open area, a hundred yards or more on a side, like the keep of an old castle. A long gray building, three stories tall, its slab sides dotted with tiny slit windows, holds the center. A path’s been cleared through the snow from the holding pen towards it. A handful of smaller structures huddle together at the base of the prison’s high stone walls. By what little remains of the day’s light it looks a hard place, devoid of either warmth or color, and I can’t see how its appearance will have improved much by morning. Assuming I’m around to see it, that is.
Goldie pushes me towards a stout wooden door that looks to be the entrance to the main building. Mac holds it open and I step inside. A metal stair zig-zags up into darkness. He turns to his companion.
‘Bring him through. I’ll go tell Finch.’
His boots clang up the stair. Goldie grabs me by the elbow, drags me along a short corridor that opens into a huge, dimly lit hall. As my eyes adjust to the gloom I can see it’s open, all the way to its high, vaulted roof. Around the sides iron landings protrude from the gray stone and beyond I can just make out rows of cell doors. Most sit in darkness, but here and there the soft glow of candlelight seeps out from within. Shadowy figures lean against the railings in ones or twos, talking in low murmurs, here and there the glowing red tip of a cigarette passing betwee
n them. I feel the weight of their stare as I enter.
A long wooden table stretches off into shadow, candles in various stages of decomposition punctuating its length. Flames gutter in the shells of a few, but most are unlit. Goldie pulls out a chair near the end and manhandles me into it, then places Hicks’ pistol on the table nearby.
He stands to one side, grinning down at me.
‘Mr. Finch’ll be down soon, don’t you worry.’ A giggle escapes his lips, like he can barely contain his excitement.
I stare down at the table. My head’s starting to hurt from where I banged it, but I suspect whatever injury I’ve picked up there is soon going to be the least of my worries. I don’t know who Finch is, but I can’t say I share Goldie’s excitement at the prospect of meeting him. There’s not much I can do about that, however, so instead I tuck my frozen hands into my lap and sit there, awaiting my fate.
*
I DON’T HAVE LONG TO WAIT.
From somewhere behind and above there’s the creak of a door being opened and then the slow, uneven clang of hard shoes on metal. The sound echoes through the hall, reverberating off the cold stone. The footsteps reach the end of the landing and take to the stair. They become more deliberate as they descend, until at last they reach the bottom. There’s a pause and then they start up again, growing louder as they make their way toward me. And now the hollow click of heels is punctuated by another sound, an intermittent clack as something other than shoe leather strikes the concrete.
The footsteps come to a halt, right behind my chair. There’s a long pause and then a short, neat man, dressed in a dark suit and tie, appears before me, leaning on a wooden cane. His graying hair is parted carefully to one side, and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles perch precariously on his thin nose. He’s flanked on either side by two much bigger men. The one on the left is burly, barrel-chested. An impressive gut hangs over his belt; a beard, wide like a shovel, adds to his scope. The other man is equally large, but whereas his companion looks like he might be running to fat, this one is muscular, powerful. His shaved head sits directly on a pair of broad shoulders without a discernible neck to separate the two.
The one with the beard steps forward, pulls out the chair at the head of the table. The smaller man I assume to be Finch lowers himself into it, then holds the cane up for the bearded one to take. He settles back in the chair, carefully placing one knee over the other. The cuff of one pant leg hitches up as he does it, revealing a polished wingtip. He rests his elbows on the arms of the chair, steeples his fingers, and for a long moment just studies me over them. Then without warning he leans forward and reaches out a hand. The fingers are narrow, delicate, the nails clean, recently clipped. He smiles, revealing a perfect picket fence row of teeth.
‘Garland Finch.’
The voice is low, soft like velvet, and yet somehow intense. For a few seconds I just stare at the hand, unsure what to say. There is something about him that is different, other. It’s like he’s wrong for this place; like he doesn’t belong here. At last I stammer out my name. He repeats it, rolling the word from his tongue, almost like he’s tasting it. I lift my hands from my lap to take the one he’s offering, but it’s a little difficult with my wrists tied together. He looks down at my bonds and his face wrinkles with displeasure. He tilts his head to one side.
‘Mr. Goldie?’
The man with the teeth scurries forward out of the darkness.
‘Yes, boss?’
Finch nods at my wrists.
‘Why is Gabriel bound, Mr. Goldie?’
Goldie looks at me, and then at Finch, then back at me again, like he might not understand the question. The man who, for all his diminutive size, is clearly in charge of this place sighs. When he speaks it is patiently, as if to a slow-witted child.
‘What do I detest more than anything Mr. Goldie?’
Goldie bobs his head, like he knows this one.
‘Bad manners, boss.’
Finch looks at my bonds again, as if his point has been made.
Goldie leans closer, bows his head, so it’s next to Finch’s ear. He points at the pistol that sits in front of me on the table. His voice drops to a whisper.
‘But boss, we found that on him.’
‘Well no doubt he was carrying it for his own protection, Mr. Goldie. And I can’t say I blame him, with hooligans like you running around untethered.’ He smiles at me, apologetically. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t mean to use it on us, do you Gabriel?’
I shake my head.
‘No, certainly not.’
At least not without the bullets it came with.
Goldie’s mouth opens, like he might be about to protest some more. Finch closes his eyes and raises one hand to his brow. His narrow fingers press between his eyebrows, as if stanching a headache.
‘Mr. Goldie.’
He doesn’t raise his voice, but for those few syllables the tone changes. It loses all its softness and takes on a hard, flinty quality. From the dark balconies above there’s a sound like I remember the rustling of leaves, as though the men there have suddenly all decided to draw breath at precisely the same moment.
Goldie’s jaw snaps shut with an audible click. He hurries forward, fumbling in his pocket; Weasel’s knife appears between his fingers. I hold my hands up. He slips the end of the blade between my wrists and starts sawing at the cord like his life depends on it. A few moments later the severed ends drop to the table. I rub my wrists, wincing as the blood returns to my fingers.
Finch looks at me as if embarrassed. He waits while I flex my fingers and then holds out his hand again. When he speaks his tone is once more pleasant.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Gabriel.’
I shake his hand. The fingers that slip into mine feel slight, fragile, like there may be nothing more substantial than the bones of birds beneath the skin there.
‘You will have to forgive Mr. Goldie. It may not surprise you to learn that he has a long and troubled history with firearms.’
Goldie’s already retreating, clearly anxious to be out of our presence, but the man with the beard steps forward, blocking his way. He folds a pair of meaty forearms across his chest and stares down at the shorter man.
Finch tilts his head to one side, the thinnest of smiles playing across his lips.
‘Mr. Goldie, I do believe you’ve forgotten something.’
Goldie pauses then turns around and scurries back to the table. He deposits Weasel’s knife next to Hicks’ pistol, then hurries away again.
Finch turns back to me and shakes his head ruefully.
‘You will need to be more careful with your possessions while you are with us, Gabriel.’ He shifts a little closer, speaking into the back of his hand, as though the comment is intended for me alone. ‘There is a regrettable criminal element.’
His fingers brush the knot in his tie. I’m struck again by how neat he appears. There’s not a thing out of place. Even his shoelaces look like they might have been pressed.
‘Now tell me: how have they been treating you?
‘Uh, fine, I guess.’ At the last moment I remember his comment about manners. ‘Thank you for asking.’
He smiles, but then something catches his attention. He leans forward, studying my face.
‘I do hope that cut on your forehead wasn’t caused by one of these ruffians.’
From somewhere off in the darkness I hear Goldie’s voice again. He speaks quickly, tripping over the words, like he’s anxious to get them out. Seems like the pitch might be a shade higher than it was just moments before, too.
‘Wasn’t me, boss. He fell of his own accord, coming in through the gate. Clumsy! Clumsy! I tried to help him, yes I did. Swear to God.’
Finch’s eyes narrow at the lie; he lifts one finger and starts tapping the arm of the chair, like it vexes him. Nothing in our brief history should make me care for Goldie’s wellbeing, but for some reason I can’t fathom I nod, confirming his story. Finch stares at me for a long moment,
his fingernail still marking out time. Then without warning he stops, spreads his hands, and the smile returns.
‘Well I’m glad to hear it. Now, Gabriel, we were just about to eat. Will you join us for dinner?’
The inquiry sounds genuine, like I’d be free to get up and walk out if I chose. It’s too late to go anywhere till morning, of course, but the fact that he makes it seem that way lifts my spirits a fraction, all the same.
‘Um, sure.’ I remember his comment about manners, and what Goldie said about them not having any food to spare. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything to contribute, though.’
Finch waves the idea away, like he wouldn’t hear of it.
‘Nonsense, you are our guest.’ He tilts his head in Goldie’s direction.
‘Mr. Goldie, please run and tell Mr. Blatch we shall have one more for dinner.’
‘One more for dinner, right boss.’
‘And let him know he may serve whenever he’s ready.’
*
GOLDIE’S FOOTSTEPS RETREAT as he scurries off on his errand. Those on the landings take it as their cue to join us. They shuffle down the stairs and across the hall, approaching the table cautiously. The positions they assume seem well rehearsed, though, as if this is a ritual they have performed countless times before. Finch introduces each as they step into the faltering candlelight. The names continue as more men emerge from the shadows; soon I’ve given up any hope of keeping them straight in my head and all I have is the count. The last two to arrive – thirty-six and thirty-seven – are the small man I saw in the booth as we came in, who Finch says is Mr. Culver, and Goldie’s tall raggedy companion who he calls Mr. MacIntyre. None of these men look like they’re carrying any extra weight. Their lips are parched, cracked, their faces chiseled gaunt by hunger. They keep their eyes down, focusing on the bowl and spoon each has brought with him. The two large men who entered with Finch are the last to sit, taking places on either side of him at the end of the table. Their size marks them out in contrast. The muscular man Finch introduces as Mr. Knox. The heavy one with the beard he calls Mr. Tully. If Finch had been the warden of this place I’m guessing Knox and Tully must have been two of his guards.