Hell and Gone

by Duane Swierczynski

  Why was he here?

  He had no idea.

  The guards guided his stumbling ass through a confusing series of rooms. One looked like a cafeteria. The next was a laundry room furnished with—strangely—refrigerators. Then somebody’s spartan bedroom, followed by a room that looked like a primitive security-department control booth, then another bedroom, then a third bedroom, which was apparently his, because they eased him onto a creaky bed there and told him to rest a while. There was a lot of work ahead of them.

  Hardie had no intention of sleeping. Just wanted to ease back for a few seconds, take a few deep, cleansing breaths, close his eyes, maybe, for a microsecond or two…

  12

  This is hell, and I’m going to give you the guided tour.

  —Donald Sutherland, Lock Up

  A NOISE—

  (clanging chains?)

  —jolted Hardie awake.

  He bolted upright, immediately forgot that one of his arms didn’t work right, and collapsed back down to the mattress. Beneath his head, ancient mattress springs groaned. Fuck me. Using the hand attached to the arm that did work, Hardie rubbed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. He was going to need a clear mind if he was going to get out of here.

  Where was here, though?

  Hardie imagined a map of California—specifically, Los Angeles, where this all began. He wondered how far away he might be from the City of Angels. There had been a ride in an ambulance, with the driver talking about taking the 101. There had also been some time in a hospital—which had to be within driving distance, right? Because he didn’t remember any planes.

  Hardie allowed his mental map to zoom out to encompass the entire American Southwest. Lots of desert. Lots of places to hide.

  If you were going to set up a secret prison on American soil, the middle of the desert wouldn’t be a bad place. Is that where he was? Somewhere in Death Valley?

  Of course, there were gaps in his memory—there had to be a whole bunch of missing time he couldn’t account for. (Otherwise, his head wound sure did heal up freakishly quick.) There had also been that hellish ride in the coma car followed by…more missing time. So yeah. He could have easily missed a plane ride. Extradition, the good old-fashioned American way. A one-way trip on a torture taxi. Last stop: your sorry ass in a secret prison.

  The mental map zoomed out further to include the entire United States, then North America, then further still, the globe spinning, the Atlantic whizzing by, and Europe and Africa and the Middle East swinging into view…

  He could be anywhere.

  And at the same time…nowhere.

  Okay.

  Forget the location for now.

  Didn’t matter where he was.

  What mattered was finding a way out of this place, and then worrying about finding his way back home to Kendra and the boy.

  Hardie blinked crust out of his eyes and twisted his body up into a half-sitting position, supporting his upper body weight with his right arm this time. His left arm was still numb, his right leg throbbed, and oh, how his head still pounded.

  Now that Hardie could see it properly, the room turned out to be no bigger than a college dorm. Bed, sink, desk, small beat-up wooden dresser that looked like it had been painted back in the 1950s. There were no bars in the doorway, so it wasn’t a prison cell—but there wasn’t a door, either, which meant no privacy.

  Hardie swung his legs over the side of the bed and rested his feet on the concrete floor for a few moments until he felt like trying to stand up. Uh…no. That wasn’t going to happen right now. Apparently Old Man Hardie needed his cane first. Someone had helpfully left it hanging from the metal bedpost. As he reached for it Hardie could feel the blood rush to his extremities. Out of nowhere, his heart began to race. He took a deep breath, which is when a voice startled him:

  “A bit more calm now, mate?”

  It was the Aussie guard, the one with the neatly trimmed beard and bright blue eyes, perched in the doorway, a nervous smile on his face. He was either Australian or he enjoyed faking the accent.

  “You gave us kind of a scare. Never had the new warden, uh, attack us before.”

  “Why are you calling me that?” Hardie said.

  “What?”

  “Warden.”

  “Uh…because you are the warden? I mean, why else would you be here?”

  “Vacation.”

  The Aussie was dumbstruck for a moment before cracking a broad smile and nodding. “Ah, you’ve got a sense of humor. That’s good. It’ll serve you well down here.”

  Hardie thought about this. He had to play it carefully. Either the Aussie knew the truth—that Hardie had been sent here against his will—or he didn’t. For now, Hardie thought it best to reveal as little as possible. The moment you open yourself up is the moment your problems multiply. He rubbed his eyes again. Why couldn’t he wipe the gunk away? Maybe he’d slept longer than he thought, because his eyes were seriously crusted over. The Aussie just stood there, grinning and waiting patiently.

  Hardie had to break the silence. “So what do you want?”

  “Just wanted to introduce myself,” the bearded guy said. “I’m Victor.”

  “Right,” Hardie said. “I’m Ch—”

  “Uh uh uh.” Victor interrupted. “Can’t know your real-world name. We don’t know your name, you don’t know ours. It’s better that way.”

  “You just told me your name.”

  “Victor’s not my real-world name. It’s just a handle. All the guards have them. There’s me, Whiskey, X-Ray, and Yankee. This protects our identities as well as our loved ones out there in the big bad world, you know?

  “Whiskey? X-Ray?”

  “You know—the NATO alphabet? Hey, it’s better than colors, for fuck’s sake. Anyway, when a new guard arrives, they’re given the next letter down. Next guard will be Zulu. Then Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and so on. What’s funny is, I’ve been Victor so long it’s starting to feel like my real name.”

  “So that makes me…what, Zulu?”

  “No, that makes you the warden. So from here on out, we call you Warden. They didn’t explain this to you?”

  No, they—or in this case, Mann—had neglected to add this little detail. Warden. Hardie shook his head in disbelief. He’d spent two years as a house sitter. Now, if this bearded dude with a fake name was telling the truth, Hardie was in charge of running the Big House. It was almost a joke. Was God up there laughing? Did God even exist?

  “Right,” Hardie said. “Okay. Well, if I’m the warden, pardon me while I take a look around the place.”

  And look for the fucking exit.

  “Hang on,” Victor said. “Got some prezzies for you.”

  The guard reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of goggles and a small plastic teardrop.

  “What’s this?” Hardie asked as Victor dropped the items into his hand.

  “The goggles help block out some of the fluorescent lights, since they never turn them off—even in our quarters. You’ll also want to wear them when dealing with the prisoners. Some of them have been known to, uh, spit.”

  They reminded Hardie of a child’s plastic swimming goggles. He turned them over and saw that the insides of the lenses were indeed dark—pitch-black as the screen on a busted TV.

  “And the earpiece”—Victor tapped his right ear—“is how we communicate with each other. You want to call the other guards, just make a single whistle and click twice. That engages the system. Watch.”

  Hardie sat there, watching.

  “Well, you have to put the earbud in first,” Victor said.

  After turning it around with his fingers, Hardie gave in. Sure. I’ll put the stupid plastic thing in my ear. And sure enough, the daffy bastard whistled, a kind of a Star Trek communicator–style trill, then made two fast clicking noises. Now Hardie could hear Victor’s voice coming from two distinct locations: right in front of him, and directly inside his ear canal.

  “Pretty neat,
huh?”

  Another male voice quickly chimed in: “Everything all right, Victor?”

  “Yes—sorry, mate. Just giving the warden an earpiece demonstration.”

  “Is he awake?”

  “Yes, Yankee, he’s awake,” Victor said. “And he’s listening.”

  Victor made two clicks, and the earbud went dead.

  “I think Yankee was taking a little nap there. Sucks to have to wake the others, but communication is everything in this place. If something happens, you want to know the other guards will come running immediately.”

  “Right.”

  So there was some kind of wireless system down here. Hardie wondered if he could figure out a way to broadcast a signal beyond these walls. This would do no good if the secret prison were buried in the middle of nowhere, of course. And Hardie had no idea how cell phones worked, let alone how to hijack a wireless communications system and make it broadcast out. But it was something. A possibility.

  Hardie finally wrapped a hand around his cane and steadied himself. He wished Victor weren’t here. If Hardie was going to fall on his ass, he’d rather do it in peace and quiet. He tried waiting a few seconds, not making eye contact.

  But Victor wasn’t the kind of guy to take a hint. So Hardie steadied his right hand on the cane, then used his left leg to push himself upright. The world went a little fuzzy for a few seconds…and then it only got worse. Hardie thought he was in real danger of passing out.

  Victor smiled and clapped him on the back, massaging him for a second, which was a second longer than Hardie liked.

  “You’re a real old-school badass, aren’t you?” Victor asked.

  “How about you don’t touch me?”

  Hardie moved the cane, then his good leg. Cane, good leg. A few more steps and he had a system going. By the time he reached the doorway, however, a guard was blocking his path.

  * * *

  It was the female guard. Arms crossed, cold, hard stones in her eyes. Hardie couldn’t help but think: this is it. They would admit they had been kidding about the whole warden thing. And then they would savagely beat his ass, and he’d be forced to defend himself with his old-man cane before being thrown into a cell.

  Instead, Victor made a hasty introduction.

  “Warden, this is Whiskey.”

  She just stared at him, eyes slicing straight through his skull.

  “Not my brand, obviously,” Hardie said.

  Standing behind her was one of the other male guards—one with black Brillo-pad hair and a white mitten of gauze around his right hand. He must have been the one who had gotten his paw caught in the elevator door.

  “Hello, Warden. I’d shake your hand, but…”

  “Yeah,” Hardie said. “Understood.”

  “That’s Yankee,” Victor said.

  Victor.

  Whiskey.

  Yankee.

  Was all this for real?

  But the biggest absurdity was the idea that he was in charge of these people. If this was all legit, and they (that word again) actually put Hardie to work as the warden of a secret prison to work off some perceived debt, then they could have done a lot better with somebody else. Like, anybody else. Hardie was a born loner. Not only did he not play nice with others, he couldn’t fucking stand others. Everyone except Kendra, the boy, and Nate Parish. And Nate was dead.

  Besides that… all Hardie wanted to do was get the fuck out of there. Like he’d spend a single second doing something other than trying to escape?

  Victor smiled and said, “All we’re missing is X-Ray. But you can meet him later.”

  “Yeah,” Hardie said. “X-Ray. Sure.”

  The female guard stepped forward, said, in shaky English: “Warden.”

  Already, the Warden shit was getting real old fast. “Look, guys,” Hardie said. “Why don’t you just call me Ch—”

  “Hey, now,” Yankee said, shaking his head. “No names. You know that. Victor, he knows that, right?”

  “He knows,” Victor said, wagging his finger at Hardie. “You know…right?”

  Whiskey reached out to touch Hardie’s arm. “We need…heat.”

  “What?”

  “On gelé,” she said. “It is…too cold.”

  “So find the thermostat and turn it up.”

  Yankee gave him a confused look. “Only the Prisonmaster can do that.”

  “Who?”

  “The Prisonmaster,” Victor said. “The man in charge of sending down food, medical supplies, and new clothing as needed. And only the Warden can talk to the Prisonmaster to make these requests.”

  Victor and Yankee exchanged a brief look. Hardie probably wasn’t meant to catch it—but he did.

  Turning his attention back to Hardie, Victor said, “Look, I was getting to that. This is how it works down here. You call it in, the Prisonmaster has it sent it down. He also controls the environmentals—heat, cooling, water temperature. Without a warden, the Prisonmaster’s been just sending down the bare minimums, enough to keep the facility running. Even environmental requests were ignored.”

  “So you want me to talk to this Prisonmaster guy and ask him to turn up the heat?”

  “If you would,” Yankee said with a smile that was meant to be charming but came off as slightly overeager, bordering on homicidal. “And there’s also the food situation.”

  “You’re out of food?” Hardie asked.

  “No,” Yankee said. “We have plenty of food. But it’s the same food—breakfast all the freakin’ time. Muffins, white bread, orange juice, grits, oatmeal, and the most awful slab of gray meat you’ve ever tasted. We’ve had it. We need something else.”

  Already Hardie’s mind was racing. Food. Prisons needed food, and the food had be delivered from somewhere. Garbage hauled away, too, right? There was no such thing as an escape-proof prison, because to sustain life inside a prison you need support from the outside. This was good.

  “Okay,” Hardie said, trying to give the impression that he was actually giving a shit. “No breakfast. Got it.”

  Victor smirked. “That was your predecessor’s big idea, too. He thought breakfast was comfort food.”

  “Okay, heat and different food. Can I do anything else for you?”

  An extremely awkward moment followed. All three guards stared at Hardie, as if trying to figure him out. And Hardie did the same. Were they putting him on with this bullshit about heat and breakfast?

  Hardie decided, fuck it, and pushed past them. Cane, leg. Cane, leg.

  Of course, he didn’t make it far.

  Once Hardie crossed the next room—which also had a bed and sink—the door was locked.

  “Wait,” Victor said, just catching up behind him. “Where are you going?”

  “If I’m the warden, I should tour this place, shouldn’t I?”

  “Of course. But you gotta put these on, mate.”

  Victor pressed something into Hardie’s hand—the stupid goggles.

  “No, thanks,” Hardie said.

  “You don’t understand. It’s a rule. Besides, you don’t want them gazing into your eyes. Windows to the soul, and all that.”

  Hardie could only imagine what he must look like in his suit, with his walking stick and the dorky spaceman goggles in his hand. Something out of a 1980s new-wave music video, most likely. Maybe Mann’s bosses didn’t want to work him to death. Maybe they just wanted to embarrass the living shit out of him.

  Victor fitted his own goggles on his face, double-checked his belt and plastic restraint cuffs, then pulled a set of keys out of his pocket, which were attached by a short length of chain to a metal stud on his black leather belt.

  “Besides, you’re not going to get very far without keys.”

  “Don’t I get a set?”

  “I’m sure they’ll send your set down soon. Anyway, they’re electronically coded. You slip a key in the door, the mechanism unlocks, and you’re good to go. There are door keys, cell keys, all kinds of keys.”

 
; Victor hesitated.

  “You sure you’re ready for this?”

  “Just open the door.”

  “All due respect, Warden, we’ve got the smartest monsters you’ll ever encounter. Our survival in this facility depends on following the rules. You show any of them weakness, they’ll exploit it. They will try to befriend you, crawl inside your mind with just a glance. But you cannot listen to them, any more than you’d listen to a rabid animal. Do you understand?”

  “Sure.”

  Victor laughed, shook his head. “I can tell you don’t believe me. That’s okay. When I first arrived, I didn’t believe the warden, either. But here’s something I’ve come to realize. As bad as the outside world might be, with nutty bastards blowing up day-care centers and terrorist technicians constantly trying to find the best way to hide liquid explosives up someone’s ass so they can fart and take out a jetliner…as bad as that is, it could be worse. Far worse. There could be more serial killers, more bin Ladens, more monsters roaming the planet…if not for facilities like these. We’re the first and last line of defense.”

  Hardie said:

  “Just open the door.”

  13

  Knowledge of the outside world is what we tell you.

  —Patrick McGoohan, Escape from Alcatraz

  AS HARDIE HOBBLED forward into the small, cramped room housing the control panel and looked through a dingy partition of thick, shatterproof plastic onto the rest of the facility, he finally got a sense of the place.

  He’d seen prisons before. But none like this.

  The entire site was one low-ceilinged room, about the size of a cafeteria in a shitty inner-city high school. This control room, like his own quarters, was one of a series of small rooms on the outer perimeter—like luxury boxes in a sporting arena, only minus the luxury. Cement floors with chipping paint, cement walls with chipping paint, steel supports with chipping paint.

  And the prisoners? They were crammed into poorly lit rusty cages. They sat on metal floors and had metal masks strapped to their heads.