Criminal Zoo

by Sean McDaniel

  “Come on, guys, give me a break.” The attendant’s voice reaches us from the other room. “I’m working on a crossword puzzle in here.”

  I look at the inmate’s arms, at his shoulders and face. “Were you burned fighting fires? Or is all that from being in here?”

  “I never got burned once on the job. Every one of my injuries is from this fucking place. My L-twos all come in with a lighter. It’s the same every time. A little black lighter with ‘Criminal Zoo’ printed down the side in white. And they torture me with it. It hurts bad. Every time, real bad.” His tears escalate into an all-out wail.

  “All those burns from just a lighter?”

  “They hold the flame against my skin. In their eyes, I see hatred. They don’t even know me, but they hate me. I never did anything to them. Why do they hate me?”

  “Because they’re animals. Why else would they come here?”

  “When I had hair on my arms, it caught on fire. I can still smell it. Every time I close my eyes I smell it. It makes me sick just thinking about it. Now, there’s no hair left. They drag the flame up and down my skin. The smell of my burning flesh makes me sick every time. I scream, but they don’t stop. They never stop. Not until my keeper makes them.” He stops talking and wipes his eyes. He looks at me. “What happened to your hand?”

  I look down at it, and then back to him. “Rogue L-two. Cut off my fingers.”

  “No shit? Hey, were you the one the alarm sounded for?”

  “Yeah. Regulators were dispatched and everything.”

  “They get the guy?”

  “Oh, yeah. Zapped his ass unconscious.”

  The firestarter nods. “So what happened to your ears? They’re pretty fucked up.”

  “My L-twos come in with a pocket knife. Same design as your lighter—black knife, white logo of the Zoo down the side. That’s what the asshole used to cut off my fingers. Usually they cut on my ears, scar ’em up pretty bad.”

  “And the scars around your eyes? Why there?”

  “They cut around them, around the safety goggles. Hell, they’d cut my eyes completely out if the keeper would let them. And look at what else they do.” I stick out my tongue.

  “Your tongue looks like shit.”

  “Thanks.”

  His face suddenly scrunches up. “Wait a minute. Eyes, ears, tongue…holy shit. You’re that one guy, aren’t you?”

  “Oh God, don’t say it.”

  “The Three Monkeys Killer, right? You’re him, aren’t you?”

  “It makes me sick when people call me that.”

  “Yeah, man—I heard all about you. My keeper told me you were here. My God, I can’t believe the shit you did!”

  “Wait…what? What are you talking about? You’re in here for the same reasons I am.”

  “Bullshit! I accidentally killed a few people. But you…you’re a fucking psychopath, man. You cut the eyes and tongue out of your victims. You cut their fucking ears off, man. You maim and kill.”

  “Hey, buddy, I’ve got a news flash for you. You murdered four people just so you could earn a paycheck. If anyone’s a psychopath, it’s you.”

  “That’s some serious bullshit and you know it! You’re the fucking psycho!”

  The attendant stomps into the room. “Enough with the arguing. You sound like a couple of third-graders. If I hear any more yelling, I’m going to recommend that both of you are put back on display.”

  The attendant knows, and I’m sure he knows we know, that he doesn’t have the authority to do that. Only the staff doctors can authorize an inmate’s return to display. He gives us a hard stare and then leaves the room. I try again with the pyro.

  “Listen, whether we like it or not, we’re in here together. We have enough enemies from the outside. Let’s not create enemies on the inside, too. What’s your name?”

  “I’m CZ One-Two-Five-Seven.”

  “No, not the bullshit number they gave you. Your name. What’s your real name?”

  “Does it really matter?” the man asks.

  “Yeah, it matters. Our keepers and our visitors may have forgotten that we’re still human, maybe even the whole world has, but we haven’t. Our time in the Repair Shack is the only time we get to remember that we are not animals, that we are human beings. If even for a minute, let’s remind each other of that. My name is Samuel. Samuel Bradbury.”

  The firestarter stares at me, his face softening. “My name’s Gary. Gary Metters.”

  “So where you from, Gary Metters?”

  “Sacramento,” he says. “That life, my freedom, it seems so long ago…” He trails off, his tears returning.

  “Gary from Sacramento, I’m Samuel from Clemensville, Texas.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard all about you.”

  “Hey, don’t believe everything you hear,” I say with a forced laugh, trying to ignore my throbbing hand.

  Gary sighs. “I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can make it a year.”

  “Sure you can. We’ll be kings in prison. One year in hell and then we’re the badasses on the block!”

  “I got no idea how long I’ve been in. Already feels like two years. How about you?”

  “No clue,” I respond. “I used to count the days by each light cycle. Lights on, lights off—one day, you know? But after a while, I lost track. No way of recording it. So hell, it’s gotta be…oh, I don’t know…maybe seven or eight months now? Feels like forever. Or shit, it could only be four months. I just don’t know. But I know I’m tough enough to get out of this fucking shit hole.”

  “Time stands still in here,” Gary says.

  “Why’d you push the button?” I ask.

  “Because I lost my mind. I seriously went crazy in there. I got claustrophobic as shit. I couldn’t take the silence anymore.”

  “Me too. I started thinking I was disappearing, slowly being erased. I couldn’t take it. And now here we are.”

  “So that means we’re going to Heaven when we die, right? Because we’ve already been to Hell.”

  “That’s the way I see it. But even if we don’t, Hell will be a breeze compared to this place.”

  Failure to Thrive

  I feel like shit. I’m burning up. And then I’m ice cold. And then burning up again. I am given medicine but I don’t know what kind. They tell me my hand, or what’s left of it, is infected. And the infection is possibly in my blood. “Sepsis,” the Repair Shack doctor tells me, sounding concerned. I’m sure he’s worried that I won’t get my full twelve months of torture.

  In my sickened state, all I can think about is my vulnerability. That asshole could’ve easily killed me. I realize any one of my L2s could kill me before the keeper could stop them. I shudder, not just because of the fever.

  Gary the pyro attempts to carry on a conversation from his bed, but I’m unable to follow. After more antibiotics, my fever breaks and I awake in a pool of sweat. The linens are changed by a grumbling attendant while I stand naked, shivering and handcuffed to my bed. The only time I am released from the metal railing is when I have to go to the bathroom. And I do that as infrequently as possible, seeing as how “going to the bathroom” means nothing more than doing my business under watchful eyes in a toilet plumbed into a closet—minus the door—at the far end of the Repair Shack.

  The meals served here are the same as those served in the enclosures. I stick to soup.

  I’m learning what amputees mean when they say phantom pains. I feel pins and needles sticking into the ghostly remnants of my hand. I wake up in the middle of the night, my missing fingers itching and stinging to the point that I can’t take it any longer. I am given more pain medication and told to go back to sleep.

  The firestarter is returned to display before I am. When the keeper comes for Gary, shackling his feet and hands and helping him from th
e bed, he crumples to the floor and weeps. “On your feet, One-Two-Five-Seven!” They pick him up and he grabs the railing of his bed and screams for them to leave him alone. They rip his hands free and drag him, kicking and screaming, from the Repair Shack.

  My father once said, “Samuel, we are given no cross that we cannot bear.” And then he slapped me hard across the face. I fought back the tears. “There, see? I hit you because I wanted you to see you could handle it,” he explained. “It hurt, but you handled it.” He slapped me again. Harder. “See, there you go. Handling it. Just like Christ could handle His cross.” My father was my cross.

  Now, I have an entirely new and far heavier cross to bear. I have tried to be strong. I wanted to prove my worthiness to sit among the Gods. But it has become too much. My father was wrong; we are given crosses that are unbearable. I can’t carry mine any longer. God and His race have abandoned me. Because of this, I have grown extremely confused. I hate God—single or plural. I hate all of mankind. And I hate this place most of all.

  After an undeterminable amount of time, the doctor enters the Repair Shack, removes all the bandaging from my hand, and examines it. “Good news, One-Zero-One-Three. The infection is gone.” With a smile, he proclaims, “I knew we could beat it. The hand has healed nicely, and now, my friend, you are healthy enough to be returned to your enclosure.” The smile stays on his face. I get the feeling that I’m somehow supposed to be grateful, like he’s waiting for a “thank you.” I stare at him, emotionless. He nods and leaves the room. Moments later, my keeper comes for me; the shackles are put on and I am uncuffed from the bed. The keeper leads me from the infirmary, down the corridor, and into my enclosure. I think of Jesus as He was led to the hilltop. I know His suffering all too well. No cross you can’t bear, says my dad.

  Fuck off, Dad.

  I sit in my enclosure, unable to sleep. The lights have been turned off for the night. As usual, I had a large crowd of L1 visitors, but that was it. As nice as that is, it only increases my chances of having an L2 tomorrow. I tried to put on a brave front in the Repair Shack, to impress Gary the firestarter, give him hope. But it was just an act.

  This last episode with my psycho L2 really took the wind out of my sails. Along with three fingers. The only thing keeping me going is Jon’s offer to help. If he can pull some strings and get me out of here, I can tough it out for a little while longer. One day at a time. I truly wonder how long I would be able to take this existence filled only with pain and suffering. With Jon, there is hope. Without him, there is none.

  I have not had spiritual growth since before coming here. In fact, my spirit has withered and weakened. Before this place, I was close to Godhood. Now, I am as far from it as any spirit has ever been. I wonder if the Gods are laughing at me. Laughing because they stopped me. Relieved because they know the potential I once had.

  My destiny has been stolen. I now exist, yet I do not. This isn’t any better than the Confinement Center. I shouldn’t have pushed the damn button. Feeling pain isn’t better than feeling nothing at all. Pain fucking hurts. That’s all it fucking does. Doesn’t make me feel alive. Only hurts! I don’t want to hurt anymore. I don’t want people cutting me up anymore. That son of a bitch cut off my fingers. Took parts of my body from me without even asking.

  Jesus, talk about being violated. I can’t do another fucking visit like that one. So this is it: either Jon gets me out of here, or I get me out of here. Jon’s way, I go to prison. My way, I go to the afterlife.

  Yesterday, in the Repair Shack, I ate my last meal. I am now officially on a hunger strike. If they want to keep me alive, they will have to do it with the feeding tube. Time to force Jon’s hand. I’m not staying in here anymore.

  I read in a newspaper once about a baby dying from a “failure to thrive.” At the time, I had no idea what that meant. Now I do. I will make no effort whatsoever at living.

  Sick Bastards

  Another L2, another visit to the Repair Shack. More fucking pain. So tired of it. Where is the governor? He hasn’t been back to see me since his offer to help.

  Today my Repair Shack bunkmate—recovering from a badly broken arm—is a self-described “recluse” who lived on a farm twenty minutes outside of Lincoln, Nebraska. His ticket to hell was punched when he kidnapped a twelve-year-old girl as she left a convenience store. He told me how he kept Amy—that was her name—imprisoned in his basement for more than three years with a dog chain, a spiked leather collar, and a padlock. He also told me he had fathered two children with her. He spoke with a hint of pride as he told me he had delivered both children—one boy and one girl—without any help whatsoever.

  “How come she didn’t just take the collar off when you weren’t there?” I ask.

  “Couldn’t. I had it padlocked to her neck. The only thing that could take it off was the key in my pocket. But that girl sure had spirit. She worked on it every damn day. I swear to God I had to buy a new collar every other month. And those damn things were thick, too! I have no idea how, seeing as how I kept her nails clipped, but she managed to dig into the leather and tear it to the point that I had to replace it. Gotta give her credit for effort. Fingertips was always bloody, you know? Had to be pretty sore.”

  I have nothing to say. I hate this man. He is a monster. But I need to hear his voice. Someone talking, not trying to hurt me.

  “Yep, everything was going along just fine,” the recluse from Nebraska says, “until one night when Amy complained of a real bad gut ache. She had been feeling her oats a little earlier that day so I had to knock her around a little. You know, put her back in her place.”

  I seriously don’t want to hear this, but I desperately need the interaction.

  “She wasn’t doing as told, you know, so I gave her a few solid kicks to the gut while she lay on the floor, crying. The next morning she was pretty pale and didn’t really move around a lot. I tried to get her to eat some breakfast, cooked her up some eggs and toast, but she wasn’t hungry. Of course I was concerned with her well-being, but what was I supposed to do, you know? It’s not like I could just run her down to the doctor’s office.”

  “So what’d you do?”

  “What the hell do you think I did? I tried my damnedest to nurse her back to health. I unchained her, bathed her, brushed her hair, hoping it would help her feel better. I offered her food each day, but she only got worse. Her color got worse, got all grey on me, and she kind of went into a comatose state.”

  “Yeah? And then what’d you do?”

  “Nothing I could do. She died down there in the basement.”

  “So you raised the kids until you got caught?”

  “Hell no, I didn’t raise no bastard kids! Can you imagine those little retards running all over the place, breaking everything and making a mess?”

  He gives me no time for a response.

  “Well I certainly can, and I wasn’t having none of that shit! So after delivering each one, I held them underwater in the bathtub. After they was dead, I chopped them up with my hatchet. I dumped the parts into a plastic bag and then took the bags to the county landfill, because I didn’t think it was all that sanitary having body parts buried all over my place. Besides, I had a dog. He would’ve just dug everything up.”

  “I had a dog once.” If only I could go back to the days of Brutus.

  “Mine was a great big ol’ Saint Bernard named Cujo. Yeah, you guessed it, Stephen King fan. So anyway, I didn’t want Cujo digging up my yard, you know?”

  “So how did you get caught?”

  “Stupid luck. Just like Amy’s kids, I disposed of Amy’s body at the landfill. A month later, a baby goes missing from his crib. The mom swore the boy had been kidnapped, but she’d been having a party and using drugs the night the kid disappeared. Turns out she was a known meth head. The cops didn’t believe her story so they ended up taking cadaver dogs down to the landfill, thinking maybe t
he woman threw her kid away. They never found the boy, but they sure as shit found my little Amy. One thing led to another, and next thing I knew, the cops was knocking on my door. I guess Amy died of internal bleeding—that’s what they said during the trial. I’m surprised they could tell, ’cause I cut her up pretty good, you know?”

  With nothing whatsoever to add to this conversation, I remain silent.

  The recluse doesn’t seem to care. “Yeah, the bleeding probably had something to do with the steel-toed boots I was wearing when I kicked her. If I could’ve done it all over again, I would’ve just kicked her with tennis shoes on.”

  I do not belong in here with these sick bastards. I don’t want to listen to him anymore. “I’m tired. I’m going to take a nap.”

  It’s dark when I awaken to voices. I hear them wheel in a gurney. I know the sound well. The keepers are whispering, which is strange because they don’t usually give a damn about interrupting our sleep. The squeaky wheels of the bed go silent and the voices fade as they move into the next room.

  The putrid smell of spoiled chicken invades the room. At first I think it’s my imagination. But it gets stronger and I realize it’s real. Did my bunkmate, the recluse, release a fart from the deepest regions of his bowels?

  “Hey, buddy, that’s not cool,” I say.

  There is no response.

  Along with the scent of spoiled meat, there is an odd sweetness, like a fruit basket left to ferment. I am confused. I have never smelled anything like it.

  “Hello?” I call into the blackness.

  “Be quiet!” a voice calls from the other room.

  “Hey, listen, there’s something pretty rotten in here. You should come and check it out.”

  “If I come in there, it’ll be to crack you upside the head. Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”

  And then I hear movement coming from the direction of the smell. Someone shifting on the gurney to my right. “Hello?” I repeat.

  There is no answer. Just the smell. The more I take it in, the worse it gets. It’s starting to make me sick.