EXOSKELETON - A Novel

by Shane Stadler

  Will clutched the clipboard and pen while Tritt removed the cuff from his right wrist.

  Ruggins squared up to Will and pointed to a chair. "Sit down," he ordered. "Check and initial where indicated, but don't sign anything yet—I have to witness it to make it official." He then turned to Tritt. "What we got here anyway, drug dealer? Murderer?"

  "Child rapist and attempted murderer," Tritt hissed. "What's going to happen to him here—hard labor or something?"

  Will listened carefully to Ruggins' response.

  "I have no idea," Ruggins answered and grinned, revealing his stained and cracked teeth—this time in bright fluorescent light. "And if I did, I couldn't talk about it."

  The three Marion guards chuckled nervously. Will made eye contact with the one closest to him—Donny Anderson: MP#: 2187—and didn't break it until the man looked away. The others became silent, seemingly wondering what Will might do now that he was no longer cuffed. Will waited to see if Donny would reestablish eye contact—he didn't—and then turned his attention to the paperwork.

  Some of the information was already filled out: Name: William Dale Thompson, Height: 5 ft. 10 in., Weight: 215 pounds, Hair: Brown, Eyes: Blue, Race: Caucasian. They had the blood-type wrong, so he crossed it out and corrected it. One of the forms asked for former addresses, employers, education, etc., like he was getting a background check. Others were release forms of all types: general medical care and first aid, implementation of various medical-related procedures, minor surgery, a feeding tube, intravenous medications, various scopes, X-rays, and for recovery procedures, in case of "cardiac arrest or obstructed breathing." All of the releases were riddled with fine print that he had no desire to read. Other forms indicated the forfeiture of all of his assets, and the release of all medical, dental, psychological, and financial records. Another was a release for the implementation of psychological treatments, including psychotropic drugs and electroshock therapy. Finally, there was a consent form for the application of a biomechanical interface system.

  Will had no idea what the last one was for, or why they wanted many of the other releases, but he'd sign them anyway. He wanted no delays—no time for them to change their minds.

  Will's life had started to take a downward turn a few years before the "incident" that led him to the Red Box. It began with his philosophical outlook, which took on a complexion of impending doom, along with a sense of indifference towards many things that had once been important to him. Even his value of life—his own life—had diminished. Maybe the death of his grandmother a few years earlier had started it—a reaffirmation of his own mortality. It had been his only encounter with death; he had been there when she died.

  Maybe the depression had emerged because he felt a lack of purpose: he'd already accomplished most of the major tasks in his life, and no longer had any goals—nothing more to dream about. There was one exception: he had been looking forward to starting a new life with his fiancee. But he knew now it would have been a mistake; he'd wasted four years of his life with her.

  He shook out of his depressive trance, finished reading, and signed all of the forms in front of Ruggins, who initialed "JR" next to each signature.

  Ruggins walked the paperwork to the window and sent it through to the Admissions Officer. She paged through the stack, verified each signature, then signed and stamped a form and sent it back. She leaned to her right and pushed a button on the desk. Her voice crackled over the speaker, "Please escort the patient to the door."

  Patient? Why are they calling me that? Will wondered. It was the third time he'd heard himself referred to that way. He shifted in his seat and prepared to stand up. The Marion prison guards stirred nervously—a reaction that Will had observed often.

  He knew the guards' uneasiness could be traced to a single event. Ronald "Rocco" Ballistreri had been a convicted murderer housed in the Marion maximum security facility during Will's time there. The hairy man was a giant; over six feet four and nearly three hundred pounds. On Will's third day in the pen, the brute had walked up to him during lunch and knocked his food tray to the floor. Rocco, who didn't perceive Will as a threat at his size, was surprised to have his own tray of food suddenly mashed into his face. Will followed with a right that struck Rocco square in the nose, sending him to the floor. He leapt on the man and felt his bottled rage release, pummeling him with a flurry of strikes. The next thing he knew, the guards were pulling him off by his arms ... but not before Rocco had been rendered unconscious on the floor with mashed potatoes, gravy, and blood embedded in his beard. Will could have killed that man, and they all had known it—inmates and guards alike; hence the reputation that had protected him.

  Rocco had been killed a week later. Will figured the fight had emboldened some of the other inmates who had been tormented by the man. They had done it with a large zip-tie in the laundry facility-zipped it tightly around his neck, and left him to strangle. Will later found himself feeling pity for him; it must have been a horrible way to die.

  On another level, the guards' reactions deeply disturbed him. Will was horrified by how much he had changed in the last year: from a professor who had hated to fail students—even if they'd deserved it—to a convicted felon who summoned fear with mere eye contact. From someone who had abhorred violence, to a man who embraced it, and used it to his advantage. He had done things he was sure he'd regret one day, when the ugly head of conscience emerged from the murky waters of circumstance. Maybe it was already time for him to pay for some of those things; it was time for him to enter the Red Box.

  *

  It was time to go through the door. Will dazed when he stood up, and his vision turned to white, TV-like static for a few seconds.

  "Let's go," Ruggins ordered, taking hold of Will's upper arm. He handed the signed paperwork to Tritt, and then escorted Will to the door.

  Will noticed the Marion guards watching with curiosity. He appreciated the meaning of the moment: He was going through a one-way door that would take him away from his current world; his past life could never be recovered.

  Darlene Jackson nodded at Ruggins, then pushed a button on the wall. Will felt the floor rumble beneath his feet as the massive steel door slowly lowered through the threshold. His chest seemed to rumble along with it, but he wasn't sure whether it was the mechanical grinding of the door mechanism, or the rapid pounding of his heart, that caused the deep vibration.

  The door took a full minute to recede, after which Ruggins led him over the threshold and down a short hallway to an open elevator. Will turned in the elevator to face outward, and saw the three Marion guards watching him as the large steel door slowly raised again.

  The elevator doors slid closed with a loud clank, and they descended. After what seemed like an eternity, the elevator came to an abrupt stop. Will was certain they were somewhere far below ground, and the doors opened to a hallway illuminated with caged, red bulbs.

  Will was surprised Ruggins was allowed to escort him alone—he could have easily overpowered the old man and attempted escape. He realized what this implied, and shuddered; there was no escape.

  Ruggins led him down a long, dimly-lit corridor, and finally locked him in a room that resembled Will's former prison cell—except this one had a private bathroom and shower.

  Will was nervous, exhausted, and starving. What he wanted much more than food or sleep, however, was to find out what the "treatment" entailed—hazardous labor, or whatever it was—he needed to know. But he knew that that would not happen until the next day, or perhaps later. Fully dressed, he stretched out on a small cot that took up most of the floor space. He noticed a clock on the wall above the door, protected by a thick wire mesh. It was 11:15 p.m. on December 30th. He felt himself quickly succumb to exhaustion.

  II

  Day Zero

  Will opened his eyes and looked up into the bearded face of Rocco, the thug from prison. Startled and confused, he sat up quickly and stared in the direction of the large man while his brain unde
rwent an accelerated "boot-up" process. He quickly realized where he was, and that the events of the previous day had not just been fragments of a nightmare. This wasn't Rocco.

  "Get up," the man said.

  Will heard a Midwestern accent in the man's voice, and his red scrubs made him look like a giant male nurse.

  The man put a towel, red hospital gown, and paper slippers on a chair next to the bathroom entrance. "Shower and get dressed," he said, pointing to the clock on the wall above the exit. "You have fifteen minutes."

  Will noticed a plastic, engraved tag on the man's coat that read, simply, Orderly. He watched the orderly leave, and heard the door lock click as it pulled shut.

  Will showered and put on the disposable garments. At 6:15 a.m., the large orderly and a smaller, identically dressed man entered the room. The smaller man, whose rodent-like features seemed to match well with his dark, slicked-back hair, spoke first. "You'll now be referred to as Number 523, understand?"

  Will shrugged and nodded. The depersonalization seemed to work in his favor. Maybe it was best to not associate his name with any of this experience.

  "Let's go," the larger man ordered. Will noticed that both men avoided making eye contact, even when they spoke to him, and that their overall body language was impersonal. It made him feel cold and uneasy.

  The orderlies approached Will, and each man tightly clutched one of his arms. He found this strange, since the night before he'd been escorted by a decrepit old man. They steered him out of the room, turned right, and walked him down a long, well-lit corridor. The bright fluorescent light made the place feel much less ominous than it had the night before, when it had been illuminated in dim red. The air carried a scent reminiscent of wet cement.

  The corridor sloped gradually downward and then upward again a long distance away, so that Will could not see the end. After they had walked at least two hundred yards, they finally arrived at a door identical to that of the steel vault design, through which he and old man Ruggins had gone the night before. The larger orderly retrieved a card from his pocket, swiped it through a slot, and punched a code on the number pad located next to it. Will heard a motor hum. The door took a minute to recede, after which they stepped through.

  They entered what looked like a wing of a hospital, with high ceilings, and bright, recessed lights. A waxy chemical odor wafted from the shiny tiled floor, which gleamed as if it had recently been buffed and waxed.

  There were doors on both sides of the hallway, and they stopped at the first one on the right, on which there was a sign that read: A-Level: Rm. 1 Orientation. The smaller orderly knocked, opened the door, and led the way into the room. A woman in her late forties or early fifties with short, gray-speckled hair, narrow glasses, and a blue suit-skirt sat on a leather chair next to a coffee table. She pointed to another chair directly across the table from her.

  The orderlies brought Will over, pushed him down roughly into the chair, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind them.

  The woman stood, retrieved a thick file-folder from a desk behind her, and returned to her seat. "Good morning, Mr. Thompson—uh, Number 523," she said. "My name is Dr. Smith, I'm a psychologist and Orientation Administrator. My job is to tell you what's going to happen today—your actual treatment will start tomorrow."

  Will noticed an underlying smirk on the woman's face, and something about the tone of her voice annoyed him. He nodded, acknowledging that he understood.

  "Here's the itinerary," she explained. "After our meeting, you'll undergo a series of evaluations and tests." She proceeded to summarize the details of the appointments scheduled for the day, two of which caught Will's attention more than the others: a financial meeting and something about being fitted for equipment.

  "The process takes the entire day," Dr. Smith continued, "and it won't end until ten or eleven this evening. Your first real treatment session will start tomorrow morning at 6 a.m." She seemed to be having more difficulty holding back the smirk. "Do you have any questions?"

  Will stayed calm, but the woman's smugness was wearing on his fragile disposition. At least, he thought, he might get more insight into what was to happen over the next year, but his words reflected his discontent. He looked up and made eye contact with Dr Smith. "I have many questions. But there's something disturbing about your attitude. Are you enjoying this?"

  The woman raised an eyebrow. "I'm here to answer whatever questions I can—or that I'm allowed." Her face became serious, the smirk hidden. "So ask specific questions, and I'll do my best." She didn't answer his question.

  She leaned back and crossed her legs, which Will interpreted as a defensive posture. People immediately assumed he was an animal, and there was nothing he could do to correct it; mere words could do nothing if they weren't believed. Dr. Smith's behavior angered him, but his need for information quelled his temper, and he proceeded with a question. "What do you mean I'll be ‘fitted for equipment'?"

  "That's a common question." With a rehearsed tone she explained, "It's a device that's used to administer various treatments, and it monitors your vital signs. It's made from stainless steel and titanium, and the more intrusive parts are made from surgical quality materials. The motors and electronics are all corrosion-resistant and waterproof and, of course, biocompatible when they need to be."

  Intrusive parts? Motors? Biocompatible? "I still don't understand. What is it? What does it do?"

  "It gives us complete control." She looked at him as if the answer should have been obvious.

  "Control of what? I'm locked up—don't you already have control?"

  "There are ... features ... the system provides that are unique. That's all I can say about that," she said and then looked at him for the next question.

  Will swallowed hard. He wasn't satisfied, but decided to move on. "What does this program involve—hard labor? Hazardous duty?"

  "You could say that the activities are somewhat hazardous," she replied, "but you can rest assured that your health is important to us."

  "I'm not sure what you mean."

  The woman squirmed a little in her seat before she replied. "Let's just say that it's hazardous, okay?"

  "What's hazardous about it?"

  "Let's move on."

  The exchange made Will's anxiety redline. He knew his choice to take the Compressed Punishment sentence had come with risks—he just hadn't known what they were. It was a decision made on incomplete information, but it had to be better than the alternative: being locked up for twenty-five years would be like burning away the rest of his life—he'd be near retirement age by the end—if he survived, that is. Chances are he wouldn't last very long in the general prison population, considering the nature of the crimes of which he had been convicted.

  "And the financial information?" Will inquired.

  Sustaining a blank smile, Smith replied, "Did you think the tax payers were going to pay for your treatment costs?"

  He practically felt the adrenaline inject into his bloodstream, and was unable to control the volume of his voice, "How much will it cost?"

  "Everything you have, most likely." She smirked openly now.

  "Are you enjoying this?" He heard a near breach of his temper in his voice.

  The woman reversed her crossed legs and shifted away from him slightly. She pulled a key ring out of her breast pocket, and pushed a red button on a small device that hung from the ring by a short chain. While maintaining her condescending expression, she replied, "Just doing my job."

  Will wanted to slap the woman, but maintained his composure. "How do you live with yourself?" His neck muscles tightened like cables in a winch.

  A few seconds later the door flew open, and the two orderlies rushed into the room. Both men stopped a few feet inside the doorway, their heads swiveling about, their wide eyes assessing the situation. They both fixed on Will, and rushed towards him.

  Will rose instinctively to defend himself from the advance, shoving the larger orderly hard enou
gh to lift him from the floor and send him stumbling back a few feet. The man looked stunned, and the smaller orderly froze in confusion behind his partner.

  "Stop," Will said to the larger orderly. "There's no problem." Will glared at him and then at the other one: relax.

  Both orderlies backed off slowly, seemingly confused about what to do next.

  "I thought he was getting out of control," Dr. Smith explained.

  "Do I look out of control to you?" Will shot back, but in a restrained tone.

  "I think I've given you all the information you need," Dr. Smith said and moved away quickly. She spoke to the larger orderly, "You can take him to the next meeting." She walked towards the door, and dropped the file folder onto the desk as she walked out of the room.

  As the click-clack of her heals quickly faded down the hall, the orderlies approached Will slowly. Will stuck out his arms in a gesture to indicate that he was going to cooperate—he just wanted to get things going. Both orderlies seemed to relax a bit, and took his arms.

  "You shouldn't resist when we try to secure you," the larger man said.

  Will shrugged and responded, "I didn't feel like ... being handled." He found himself becoming more and more nervous as they proceeded towards his next appointment.

  *

  Jonathan McDougal gazed through the window of his office as he savored the first sip of his morning coffee. Sunlight beamed through an eastern window and reflected from the large wooden table in the center of the room, illuminating the tall bookshelves that lined the perimeter. Jonathan did his best thinking in his office; the morning light produced a soft wooden hue that felt nice on his eyes. At night his gaze would sometimes wander to the high, coffered ceiling, lit by the stray incandescence of the floor lamps. It was a place for reflection and contemplation.