by Frank Nunez
“And what of us?”
“I can’t save the world, Felix. I sure as hell am not going to try. I wouldn’t be good to anybody just sticking around until I lose my mind.”
“And what if you get caught? Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you? What they’ll do to us, or do you even care?”
“Maybe I’ll leave you to do all the worrying.”
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. “Christ, hide,” I said. Felix scurried behind the large fridge near the corner of the kitchen. I lifted the vent, kicking the chair behind me.
“Jake, hurry,” Felix whispered. The chair landed near the sink. Felix cowered behind the fridge as the guard entered. The beam of his flashlight surveyed the room.
“Who’s there?” the guard asked.
The grids of the vent door hid my presence. I waited to see if the guard would find Felix. Felix looked up at me.
“I heard voices in here. Now come on out and I promise you won’t get in trouble.” The guard nervously walked through the kitchen, almost tiptoeing, inspecting each corner as if his life depended on it. He made his way to Felix, with only the shadows concealing Felix’s whereabouts. The beads of water dripped from the sink, creating a chilling ambience.
The guard’s boots squeaked on the tile floor with every swivel of his step. I feared for Felix, the poor bastard. The hell he would pay if he got caught. The guard came close to the vent. I thought of leaping from the vent and jumping on the guard. I could have taken him. He was no bigger than me, with a pudgy belly and skinny arms. With Felix’s help, it would have been easy. But it would have drawn too much attention. The other guards would come and that would have been the end of that.
“To hell with this.” The frustrated guard marched off into the other corridors of Crowam, probably to get drunk and sleep.
“Jake, are you there?” Felix asked.
I didn’t bother to respond. I was already gone.
The steel shafts were frigid, burning the skin on my forearms. I wish I wore a sweater. I was freezing. I didn’t even bring a lighter. Joshua was at least prepared. I rushed to escape without thinking it through with a concrete plan. I wasn’t really sure where I was going. I just kept crawling, hoping to reach something, anything that could lead to a way out of this place.
I felt something scurry in front of me, heading toward my body. Its whiskers brushed my hand. A rat bit me. The rat probably mistook my hand for a piece of cheese.. I flinched and panicked. The rat squealed as I shoved it away, but it kept coming back. I was creating too much noise. My body filled the ventilation shaft like a fish caught in a net. A few more rats joined in on the festivities. I shoved them away with my hands until they scattered off.
I regained my composure. I was out of breath from panic. I continued to crawl. My arms became sore. Joshua failed to warn me about this part, where your body becomes numb, unable to move. I was stuck, immobilized by pain. I became nauseous, claustrophobic from the tight space around me. I eventually passed out. Maybe I was too tired. Maybe I was just too scared. Sleep would have done me some good, even in the confines of a ventilation shaft.
I’m not sure how long I was out. It might have been a few hours for all I knew. I woke up groggy. My arms weren’t as sore, but they hurt when I moved. I tried to ignore the pain, continuing my crawl to freedom. Far off, I heard a cry followed by several screams. Joshua warned me to ignore the screams.
I could have made a left down another shaft where I could have found the way out or another endless maze of shafts and steel and rats. I decided to follow the screams, ignoring Joshua’s warning. The screams became louder, guiding me through the darkness. I saw a glimmer of light down the shaft, motivating me to crawl faster. The screams were torturous and gut wrenching.
“My God,” I said to myself. My curiosity pushed me forward, shoving away my fear and common sense. I felt conflicted, afraid of what I might see, yet yearning to find out the nature of the screams for myself. I reached the panel where the light pierced through the grids of the vent. I squinted a bit as my eyes readjusted from spending several hours in darkness. It wasn’t much different than when I left the prison cell beneath Crowam.
The room looked sterile with white walls and fluorescent lights. The tile floor was grey with streaks of blood. The room looked like it was cleaned in a hurry. In the corner of the room was a boy strapped to a table. He cried and jolted violently on the table he was strapped to. There were cables running through the table, with prods touching several points of his body. “Momma, momma.” he cried.
There were other tables with what looked like boys stitched to one another. Some were joined by the abdomen. Others by the skull. Their faces disfigured as their conjoined faces contoured to one another in a Quasimodo sort of way. Their mouths and teeth scarred, deformed from what looked like hours of experimentation. A few of them were alive. Others were dead, or at least appeared that way. Some tried to move, their heads jerking side to side as if fighting to awaken from a nightmare, their agonizing moans soft but terrifying
In the very back, there were bodies, lots of them. The stench of death reached my nostrils in the claustrophobic space above. Their skulls were cut open. Their brains missing. Some of them lay in a tray next to their bodies. It was a factory of death and torture. There could be no other purpose for these procedures other than to torture, maim and kill. The boys who were alive screamed, usually for their mothers.
In the back next to the bodies was a cylindrical chamber with a glass hatch. Two doctors and a guard accompanied a boy who kicked and screamed, his feet screeched leaving rubber marks from the soles of his shoes as they dragged on the floor from his reluctance to go any further. The other boys who were alive moaned and screamed in horror, as they knew the fate of the boy.
I watched helplessly as they shoved him in the gas chamber against his will. They slammed the hatch shut. The doctor twisted the knob on the hatch to seal it. There was a control panel on the cylinder’s side with cables and pipes coming out from above it. One of the doctors worked on the control panel for several minutes. You could hear the boy scream from inside. I heard a hissing sound come from the machine.
The doctors and guards stepped away. You could see the boy through the glass of the steel hatch. He slammed his fist on the steel of the cylinder. He screamed and coughed; as some sort of gas entered the chamber. He began to cough harder now, his breathing weakening, yet he kept slamming his fist against the cylinder’s steel frame. “Help!” He would yell. The doctors observed only with curiosity as they jotted down notes on a pad of paper. What the notes they could possibly be taking were beyond me. What use would they get out of such torture?
The bang sound from his fist hitting the metal stopped. The boy’s brown hair plastered on the glass as he leaned against it. I could see his chest move ever so slightly. He raised his hand, reaching for the glass before it eventually collapsed. The doctors continued jotting down notes as if boys being gassed were a usual occurrence. They made their way to the electrocuted boy.
He shook, overwhelmed with fear. The observers didn’t seem to care about his cries, his yearning for his mother. An electrical current ran through him. He gyrated violently on the table for what seemed like minutes. When the current stopped, a horrific scream let out. “Please, leave me alone,” he yelled.” They continued to shock him with electricity, administering some sort of electroshock therapy.
The stitched boys in the back moaned in the midst of all the torture. The screaming and moaning was driving me mad. I covered my ears and closed my eyes, hoping all this madness was nothing more but a nightmare. That Crowam and all its’ horror would just go away. But when I opened my eyes, everything was the way it was, except the observers left, at least for the moment. There were swinging doors to the left. They swung open and an operating table rolled in along with several others in lab coats and operating masks.
My heart fell to my stomach as I saw Thomas, shirtless, with parts of his body burned, rolled int
o the operating room. Mr. Hugo entered last. He didn’t wear a coat or operating mask. He came up to Thomas, who was sedated. Mr. Hugo caressed his head like some caring father ready to tuck in his son for the night. It was disturbing.
Mr. Hugo went over to the boy being electrocuted. The boy had tears streaming down his face. Mr. Hugo, indifferent, looked at the young boy as if he was some sort of science experiment. Mr. Hugo then went over to the other tortured souls who were strapped to their beds, motionless. He walked to each bed, one by one, observing each patient.
The stitched boys he enjoyed observing the most, as if they were his most prized possession. They squirmed and fidgeted when he got close to them. One pair screamed when he touched them.
Mr. Hugo smirked at the others in lab coats and exited the operating room. Several others in lab coats entered. I recognized one who wasn’t wearing a surgical mask. It was Dr. Sterg, who I ran into with Hannah and had berated her for working too late. One of the surgeons carried a tray with scalpels and other surgical tools. The steel tray was pristine and sterile. The instruments were neatly lined across from one another, almost to perfection. They placed some sort of oxygen mask on Thomas, most likely to keep him sedated.
What kind of surgery are they performing on Thomas? I asked myself. It didn’t seem like they were going to work on any of his burns. I was horrified in thinking about what they were going to do with Thomas. Were they going to electrocute, stitch him to another boy...? Were they going to gas him, cut him up, or do something equally cruel and terrifying? Joshua was right. He warned about what I would see. I didn’t listen. . .
The surgeons began working on his head, prepping it for surgery. They started making small incisions into his skull. His head moved with every application of pressure from the scalpel. Blood dripped on the floor, like the pellets of water from the leaky kitchen sink. I could see his eyes twitch beneath his eyelids. His body fidgeted a bit. I could tell he was still breathing, but for the life of me, I had no idea what they were doing. For a moment I thought they were going to remove his brain. They might as well have. I watched in despair as the surgeons preyed on my dear friend Thomas.
I felt helpless and alone, just watching like some sort of bystander. The assistant dropped one of the scalpels on the floor. The surgeon was not pleased, ordering her to remove the instrument and find a replacement immediately. Dr. Sterg gave the assistant a stern look, embarrassed by her mistake. She immediately exited the operating room and came back with a new tray of instruments, this time without her operating mask on. “Hannah,” I said to myself.
She placed the new set of instruments on the table near where the doctor was operating and put on a new operating mask. She looked at the ceiling, stretching her neck. She looked in my direction. Her eyes weren’t as blue, they seemed grey and cold like the floor beneath her. She kept staring. I became startled. I thought she saw me. The doctor nudged her, getting her attention to assist in the surgery. I couldn’t bear to watch anymore, but I couldn’t leave Thomas alone while he was getting cut up. I waited, figuring out what to do next.
It took four hours for them to finish. The surgeons and Hannah left, leaving Thomas alone. I grabbed the grids of the vent to see if I could remove it. I lifted the vent off its hinges. It slid right off. I left the panel in the ventilation shaft. I waited a few minutes to see if anyone else came in. The jump down was several feet. I looked to see if there was anything I could use to reach the ventilation shaft. There was a chair in the corner of the room that would do the trick.
I leaped down, making a soft landing to not attract any attention to myself. I went to Thomas. It looked like he was sleeping. There were stitches on his skull where the surgeons made the incisions. They shaved the part of his head where they made the cuts. “Hey Thomas, wake up, pal.” His eyes remained closed. “Come on, wake up, will you. It’s me Jake.” I looked at the swinging doors, checking to see if anyone came. “Thomas, damn it, wake up!”
His eyes opened up. I jumped a bit when he opened them. It was like he never woke up before. “Hey, that’s a hell of a haircut you got their kid.” Thomas kept staring at the ceiling, ignoring my presence. “I guess I was never very good at jokes. Say, everyone’s been worried about you, pal. I was worried, too. What the hell were you doing running off like that? All over a bunch of books. You’re crazier than I am, you know that!”
Thomas’s head turned, looking at me. With those empty eyes, I knew he was gone, even though he was lying right in front of me. His soul departed, away from this cruel place. “Damn it, Thomas. Aren’t you listening to a word I’m saying?”
He said nothing, only staring. Saliva drooled from his mouth. His mouth stayed open as if his chin hung unattached from the rest of his face. I knew something was wrong. The bastards cut him up in the cruelest way. Killing him, well, that would have been humane for their standards. They kept him alive, but took away a human being’s most precious commodity: the mind; the ability to observe, to think, to be free to choose any which way to live in this crazy world of ours. All of his knowledge and his empathy were gone. He became a prisoner in his own body, trapped in flesh and bone and organs. Thomas was nothing more but a living, breathing corpse.
“Thomas, come on buddy. You got too much going for you. We’re supposed to go back to the States, remember? Go to Times Square. We’ll wine and dine with the most beautiful dames New York has to offer. Hell, you can head back to Europe afterward. You can go to those little cafes in Paris, Wouldn’t that be something?”
He stared back at the ceiling again, gasping for air as if he was trying to say something. He couldn’t say anything at all.
“Thomas, please say something. Buddy?” I shook him, thinking I would knock some sense into him, like the old Thomas could come back to life. It was no use. “Oh Thomas, what have they done to you?”
“You can’t help him.” Said the stitched boys in the bed behind me.
“What did they do to him?” I asked.
“It does not matter.” They said.
When I approached them, their faces were stitched together as if both their mouths were one. The way they were sewn, it looked like they were smiling.
“Why are they doing this?” I asked.
They struggled for a moment as they tried to swallow before they spit out their answer.
“Because they can.”
Their answer only confused me further. It’s simplicity only added a layer of complexity as to why people do such bad things. I looked around the room. The room seemed to swirl around me.
“How many more are there?” I asked.
They pointed at the swinging doors before they fell unconscious.
I went back to Thomas and gripped his hand, squeezing it as hard as I could. I left Thomas there, going through the swinging doors that led to the infirmary. There were rows of beds, all with boys adorning the same incisions Thomas had. They were in the same catatonic state, lifeless yet still breathing.
Countless boys who were lobotomized and maimed. I don’t know how many there were. Over one hundred maybe. I was too terrified to count. There were windows that looked out into the courtyard. It was dark, but I could see some figures standing outside. They looked like the figures I saw out the boarded up window when I first arrived at Crowam. A face emerged from the darkness, like a ghost through the night. His walk without a purpose, probably attracted by the light of the infirmary. I recognized him as the boy electrocuted in the operating room. He had bags underneath his eyes, his eyes bloodshot.
We watched one another, separated by nothing but glass. He pressed his hand against the glass. Both our hands touched separated by mere inches. I saw his lips move. “Go,” he said. I heard footsteps behind me along with the shadows that made them. I left the lost souls behind in the inner workings of Crowam.
I made it back to the kitchen. It was a miracle. The ventilation shafts were so dark and cold I thought I would never find my way back. The kitchen was quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet
, but the kind where you think something was going to happen, like a monster lurked around the corner ready to devour you. The hallways were still. I walked through them. I became paranoid, like that monster was behind me.
My skin crawled. I pace hastened, feeling the monster behind me, inching closer. Get a hold yourself. I was talking to myself again, trying to regain my composure. I finally made it to the dorm rooms. The guard slept near the doorway. I began feeling sick. It’s amazing how the human body lets you know you have to vomit. That pit of awfulness in your stomach just waiting to come out. I entered the bathroom and ran to one of the stalls. I never puked harder in my entire life. Chunks of food and bile projectile out of my mouth like a fire hydrant. A sense of relief came over when I finished. The awfulness in my stomach gone, but the images I saw burned in my memory. I collapsed near the toilet, hugging the toilet bowl in case there was a need for seconds. I heard a whimper from the shower stalls. It was a mix of sniffling and coughing. Again, my curiosity getting the best of me. I looked into the shower to find Petey curled up in a ball in the corner, his face dug in between his legs. “Hey, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“Go away,” he said. I sat next to the little guy. He was crying. I hated seeing him cry that way. It made me feel awful. I felt horrible about the way I treated him before. “Come on, kid. What’s with all the crying, huh? You keep crying like that you’re going to turn into a basket case? You wouldn’t want that would you?”
“What’s a basket case?” Petey asked.
“Forget I mentioned it.”
“Leave me alone. You don’t care about me. Nobody does.”
That’s not true. I like you. Owen, Charles, and Felix, too. They think you’re a swell kid. You’re more mature than us knuckleheads.”
Petey wiped away his tears, sniffling, his nose runny. “I’m scared.”
“Scared? You got nothing to be afraid of kid. It’s Christmas coming up soon, you know. Maybe Santa will get you a present. Anything you want”