The Human Zoo

by Kolin Wood

  It was a sad fact that he had come to expect the extent of this degradation, but he had. Arriving at the scene, it did not surprise him that the man from the hut was indeed dead. Nobody cared who he was or what he was doing there. All anybody cared about was that he was in their way, and he had something that they wanted. Blood pooled around the body, filling the scuffle marks in the dry dirt like some intense but misshapen cave painting. In the centre of the gory circle sat Mitchel, specks of deep crimson splattered on his face like war paint, more dripping from his hands and arms. The sight made the General heave slightly.

  What could possibly have happened to some of these boys in their former lives to make them so easily turn to such savagery? he thought, as he studied the apathy on Mitchel’s face. They are enjoying this; the unrestrained nature of it all. It seems almost like payback to a system that hated and then forgot them. Were they THAT unloved, abused, that they can find such satisfaction inflicting pain and destruction in this way?

  The screams from under the tarp intensified into a shrill frenzy as everybody, except Mitchel, had now ducked inside. The General turned his back on the scene once more.

  All of this was necessary, but it did not mean that it sat well with him. He knew that his control of the group rested upon an allowance of this sort of behaviour; a tolerance of the extreme violence. The government of the apocalypse was dependent on his allowance of cheap thrills, all at the expense of the needy and the weak. It was this balance—between harmony and destruction—that allowed him to maintain a hold on the reins of power, even if it was a somewhat shaky one. It did not, however, mean that he had to approve or like any of it. Even though he never vocalised his distaste, most of what he saw made him sick to his stomach.

  Around the camp, well-used pots and pans lay scattered and abandoned. A scorched earth patch nearby showed signs of a cooking hearth. Beyond that, various articles of clothing were hung on a piece of string tied tightly between two old signs. The man and woman had clearly lived here for a while, surviving unnoticed amongst the refuse. Confident in their anonymity and undisturbed until that very moment when fate had dealt them an unlucky hand. The pair had offered no resistance at all; their only hope of salvation had been wrapped in wretched begging and pitiful pleas. As such, they had paid the price of their weakness. This was usually the way. But what people needed to realise was that everybody had to stand up and be counted now; that was just the way of things. There was no room to be weak or scared; not in this new world.

  The grunting from behind continued, but the screaming had thankfully stopped. At his feet, Mitchel was still sat next to the body of the dead man. The blank slackness of his features gave a deranged and slightly drunken look to his face. The boy’s eyes were glassy and unfocused. Below him, the man’s shirt had been ripped open. It was a blood-soaked picture; some of the chest bone showing stark white against the deep red of the body canvas. Recognition, slow to take hold, suddenly engaged the boy’s senses and he clambered to his feet, blood glistening from his skin and clothing. Something dangled loosely from his fingers. Looking down, the General saw with disgust that it was the man’s hand, which had been tied with a piece of rope.

  They are getting worse.

  Mitchel swung the severed appendage, banging it loudly on the dirty side panel of the old van to summon the rest of the boys back to duty with a spray of blood on dirty-white paint. One by one, the horde emerged from under the dirty tarp; many of them smirking and pulling on various items of clothing before falling into line with a slapping of backs and high fives.

  Above the self-congratulatory din there came a dull whack. It sounded like a butcher’s knife chopping meat from a fresh joint. The finality of the sound caused each of them to stop and look back. Dominic, his own pants open to the fly, stepped casually out from the shelter, wiping a large cleaver-like knife on a woman’s dress. With everybody watching, he turned and tossed the ruined garment aside in an uncaring manner, much as if he were throwing a used sweet wrapper in the bin. Then he smiled and fell into line behind Mitchel.

  Ordinarily, the woman might have come with them, but today it was not an option; no room for cargo. The General nodded towards the road and together they all began to walk again.

  The rain thrashed down, stinging and soaking them to the skin. They found themselves on a cluttered motorway as they moved out of the city. The packed asphalt contained an uncountable amount of cars, each and every one of which had been smashed open to the elements and long ago looted for anything of use. The snarled route made the going difficult. By moving the boys to the inside where the bank rose up slightly, the General managed to quicken the pace for a while. Like a troop of new soldiers unaware of the steps or rhythm, they marched on into the grim, late afternoon.

  Soon, the arable land gave way to parkland, with small clusters of forest stretching for as far as they could see.

  This must be it. Osterley Park.

  Once a popular tourist spot, Osterley Park boasted one of the largest, stately houses on the outskirts of the city. It had played residence for the war effort on numerous occasions, and various rich families and dignitaries had stayed there throughout the years. Soon it would be their shelter for the night and, hopefully, a rich source of much-needed bounty. Spying a break in the foliage, the General signalled to Mitchel; he and the rest of the lads ducked off the road and headed into the dark, wet undergrowth, glad of the respite from the emerging storm.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The handle cut painfully into his palm as Pock slung the contents of the bucket onto the decaying pile. Over the years, it had grown to become a stinking and slimy mountain of waste, composed predominantly of empty food cartons and faecal matter. Even in the rain, the smell of shit caused hot bile to stick in his throat and he struggled to swallow it down. The prison had never smelled particularly good; the stench of urine had always hung as an under note in the air. It had been one of the first things that he had noticed on the very first day of his incarceration to the Young Offenders Institution; how the whole place had stunk of bleach and urine. Those days paled in comparison to now though. Now, the cells were so rank, that to simply enter them made your eyes water. The prison had become uninhabitable; its slow degeneration, he always thought, was akin to a limb spiralling into untreatable gangrene. He hated this job with every ounce of his being, but knew if he didn’t take out the buckets nobody else would either.

  However, it was what lay hidden below that bothered him the most. Somewhere under that putrid mound lay the carcasses of some old wheelie bins used to burn the bodies of the already-dead years before. If he closed his eyes and thought hard enough he could still see it; the Doc, stood there alone, his face black with smoke, breathing in the fumes as the countless bodies burned and sizzled, leaving nothing behind but blackened husks and the thick, rich stench of charred meat.

  With a shudder, Pock made his way back inside through the service door into the corridor beyond, happy to be away from the burial site. The daylight had been a welcome relief from the incessant darkness of his daily existence, but now it served only to blind him and hinder his transition back into that murky, murderous world. He pulled hard and the dead-bolt clicked, top and bottom. The penalty for leaving any door unlocked was severe and yet so easily avoided.

  Several darkened corridors later, Pock stopped outside a rusted cell door. He hated this part of the prison, always so dark and eerie quiet. These were the rooms for the older utilities, those less in favour and therefore further from the ‘action’ of the rest. Nobody ever really came out this far any more. He checked the porthole for movement and, seeing none, unlocked the door and pushed his way inside.

  The small candle did little to light the room, only offering a faint glimmer of its contents. On either side were the standard two bed frames; a shape lay inanimate on each of them. Between the two beds was a table and benches. And in the farthest corner, near the table, he could see the bucket. Candlelight reflected in the liquid pooled at its base.
He grimaced; the bucket would be impossible to empty without spilling a considerable amount onto the floor and himself. Still, what difference would it really make? Look at the state of this place, of him! Without hesitating further, he reached down, cautiously lifting the wet handle from around the rim.

  “About time somebody gave a thought to us.” The female voice from his left startled him.

  The jerky movement caused the contents of bucket to splash against his leg and hand. Nervously, Pock turned in the direction of the voice and set the over-flowing container back down.

  “Thanks very much,” he said, wiping his hand on the stiff fabric of his trousers, already considerably wet with the urine from previous rooms. “As if this isn’t horrible enough.”

  The woman stood. Even in the dark, the thin fabric of her smock did little to hide the contours of her body. She possessed an ample bosom, which sat top heavy compared to her thin but muscular hips and legs. She glanced at the partially open door and Pock read her thoughts easily.

  “Don’t even think about it… the General will be along any second now,” he lied. The General was not even in the building. This particular utility however, one of the longest serving, did not need to know anything about that.

  The mention of the General’s name seemed to do the trick anyway, and Pock watched as the hope that had radiated from her face only a few seconds before, first crumbled and then died. She stared at him, her eyes sunken, dark hollows, their intent unclear, dangerous.

  “What?” he said, feeling awkward as he wiped his palms on his shirt.

  After a considerable pause, she spoke, her voice hoarse from dehydration.

  “How does it make you feel,” she said, “to know that they were right about you all along?”

  Pock shifted past the bed, her intense stare making him feel uncomfortable.

  “What are you talking about?” he said.

  The woman smiled. “You know. The people… everybody else… the ones that locked you up in the first place.” Her eyes now betraying an element enjoyment. “I was just wondering… How does it feel knowing that they were actually right about you, all this time? Right about all of you evil little fuckers.”

  This was not the first time Pock had been in to empty the bucket in this room, but it was the first time that she had bothered to make conversation with him. He had dreaded this very situation ever since he had been forced to help drag her out of her cell all those years ago. There had only been a few of them then, the utilities. He had been partially responsible for what had happened to her that night, and he knew that she must have been aware of his involvement.

  Keen not to let her in on the true depth of his discomfort, Pock shrugged. “I’m not like the others,” he managed, bending for the bucket handle once more, his mouth suddenly dry.

  The woman rocked forward and laughed, tapping one foot on the cold linoleum in a rhythm which seemed to hold count with his now rapidly beating heart. Why was he so nervous? The joy that she was gleaning from this exchange now shone evident in her handsome but hard features. Dropping the sides of her mouth in a mocking expression, her voice suddenly changed, becoming more childish and purposefully deriding.

  “Awe… I bet you were told it wasn’t your fault, huh? Some spinster shrink with nothing but cat pictures and an empty bed coming to see you once a week, telling you that people aren’t inherently evil… is that about right?” Her faux-sad mouth then turned into a spiteful sneer. “And you believed her? You poor, poor boy.”

  Pock said nothing. He felt exposed. She was judging him and he was allowing himself to be judged. Who did this woman think she was to judge something she knew nothing about? The thoughts made him angry.

  “Did she tell you that you are a product of a failing society? Huh?” the woman pursued, now evidently falling into her stride. “That you did not receive enough love and attention when you were small?” Her face fell back into a look of mock sympathy. “Awe, you poor little fellow, is that about the make of it?”

  Pock gritted his teeth. “Shut… up!” he snapped, but, unable to look her in the face, directed it to nobody but the floor.

  “And yet here you are… free. Free to choose your own path for the first time in your miserable little life. Free to show the world that they were wrong about you… that you can be rehabilitated and lead a normal life… be trusted… be loved… and what have you decided to become?” She spat the next words with venom. “A rapist, murdering pig.”

  Shaking his head, he turned away from her. She did not know him, or where he came from. The woman was clawing at assumptions and trying to get a rise out of him. He was a victim of circumstance; a casualty of life made of factors beyond his control. But it was her next words that caught him off guard and struck deep into his chest.

  “Your mother must be really proud.”

  Bitterness rose, hot and stinging in his throat.

  Your mother…

  It had been a while since he had dared to shine a light that far back into the dark recesses of his brain. His crime had made the national news. ‘SLAUGHTER’ and ‘URBAN GENOCIDE’ emblazoned across the front pages of every rag top. The brutality and viciousness of its nature sent shock waves across the country. Pock—aka James Connelly—had been made the poster boy for a fierce public debate about 'Broken Britain' and the lost generations of feral children; the true victims, it had been said, in a long serving war of poverty and disillusionment. He had known even then, deep down, that what they were saying was all rubbish. The country and its messed up ideas of equality and civil liberties were not to blame for his crime. What he had done had been orchestrated in his home—nowhere else. The violence had taken years to reach its bloodthirsty conclusion. His mother and brothers had been born evil; that was all there was to it. And they had deserved everything they got.

  “Hard to be proud if you’re dead,” he said.

  With a cough that sounded like the damp was wreaking havoc with her lungs, the woman stood, walked over to the table, and sat down opposite him. Pock watched as she took a hold of the candle that he had placed there and dragged it over to her side, as though trying to reclaim some minor portion of its heat for herself.

  Over the dancing flame she locked eyes with him again, and this time they burned straight through into his face, burrowing under his tight skin and causing it to flush red. Why did he even entertain her? He did not have to be here. The silly cow could swim in the piss for all he cared. But something inside him had caused him to try to defend himself. He could not help it. He needed to let people know that he was different and not the same as the others.

  “I’m not like them,” he said, trying to make his voice and expressions as sincere as possible. “The General…” he stammered, running through what he was about to say in his head.

  The General… what? Fed you to a psychopath in an attempt to gain his allegiance? Allowed you to be used or beaten on a whim? His eyes darted around the room.

  To be fair, this cell fared better than most. The floor looked dirty but was mostly clear of refuse. On the desk were the remnants of other candles and writing utensils—some of the other girls barely saw light. He suspected one of the guards, perhaps Doyle, of showing this corridor some favouritism, and the thought made him happier. He looked up at her, softening his eyes against her hard stare.

  “The General… he has a plan,” he stammered. “I know you can’t see that now… but there is an end… it won’t always be like—”

  “I don't give a FUCK about the General OR his plan!” the woman snapped, cutting him off mid flow as she slammed both fists down in unison on the dense table. Her mouth had twisted to show barred teeth, and her nostrils flared wide with hate. Pock moved back instinctively.

  “That girl over there has a fucking INCISION running up the length of her back!”

  Pock looked at the other bed at the shape lying on it. It had not so much as moved since he had come in, and he had assumed that it was simply a pile of blankets; the news t
hat somebody was there surprised him.

  Before him, the woman visibly seethed. Her eyes were now open so wide that they looked comical. The tendons on either side of her neck stood proud, like two clotheslines pulled tight under a stretched blanket of skin. Even in the dim light, Pock could see the muscles on her arms and shoulders rippling with tension.

  He glanced at the door and back, panic prickling his skin as her eyes tracked him dangerously. If she decided to attack, he would likely be overpowered. In comparison to his gangly, thin frame, this woman would be classed a heavyweight. He could only hope that his warning about the General being on his way had been believed.

  “That SICK fuck used her as PRACTICE last night… fucking SURGICAL practice… then tossed her to the rest of you PIGS like surplus meat. And you tell me that this is all part of a fucking PLAN?!”

  She screamed the last word as her deep sucking breaths threatened to extinguish the feeble candle. The flame danced this way and that, forcing the attending shadows to follow suit.

  “How did we get like this?” she said in a meek, suddenly defeated and broken voice. It was as if the burdening weight of the world had just, at that minute, crushed the scaffolding of her efforts. She physically slumped, the sorrow now clear in her lightly shimmering eyes.

  Pock wanted to say something… anything that would help, but found no words. Did she know that he was subject to their violence and self-gratification too? He assumed not. To this poor woman they were all one and the same, evil and feral; she had said so herself.

  The flame steadied, granting the shadows a break. He had intended on bringing the candle back, but now he thought better of it. He knew the corridors well enough that he could navigate back in the gloom. Besides, he doubted whether he could actually retrieve it and escape the room anyway.

  Taking advantage of her seemingly weakened state, but not taking any chances, Pock crossed the room backwards. She made no movements towards him, and soon he was out in the safety of the corridor once again. The expanse of space to either side felt alien in the dark, and a chill passed aggressively down his spine, causing his skinny frame to shudder.