Criminal Zoo

by Sean McDaniel

  “Hey, I think I’m going to puke in here.”

  “If I have to come in there and clean up any messes, I swear to God I’ll crack your skull open like a fucking walnut. Now go back to sleep!”

  I breathe through my mouth as best I can. I can almost taste the smell. I tell myself it isn’t as bad as I’m making it out to be. I close my eyes in hope of a visit from the sandman. But I wonder if that’ll happen. The stench next to me might just turn him around in his tracks.

  What the hell did they bring in?

  A Whole New Level of Horror

  Not much shocks me anymore. Not after being in here. But when I wake up—the room now fully lit—and roll my head to the right, to where the smell comes from, my heart almost stops.

  Only a couple of feet away, a man lies on his gurney completely nude. His red skin—not pinkish, like he fell asleep while sun tanning, but blistering, like he fell asleep lying on the sun—is covered head to toe with festering sores and open lesions. Yellowish pus leaks from his wounds, oozing onto the sheet beneath him. And he has no hair. Not on his head, his crotch, his arms or legs, not even on his eyebrows.

  His right arm, like mine, is handcuffed to a side rail. He’s on his back, his eyes open and unblinking, staring at the ceiling. His chest rises and falls with each breath.

  I shut my eyes briefly and then open them again, expecting they are playing a trick on me. They’re not.

  For lack of anything better, I say, “Hey, buddy, you don’t look so good.”

  His head rolls toward me and his eyes, red like the rest of him, meet mine. His stare says it all: he is already dead, he just hasn’t realized it yet.

  “My God, what the hell happened to you?” I ask.

  No response.

  I stare at him a moment before calling out to the attendant manning the desk in the next room. “Yo, this guy looks bad. Really bad. I think he needs help.”

  “Hey, One-Zero-One-Three, you just worry about yourself,” a voice returns.

  “What’s going on?” the recluse from Nebraska asks, awakening. I turn to him as he rises up on an elbow and looks past me. “Oh my God. What the hell happened to that guy?”

  “I know. He looks terrible, huh?”

  “Geez, pal, you look like shit,” the recluse says, his eyes locked on the new guy.

  The spoiled chicken pretending to be a man doesn’t respond. He simply stares.

  “Come on, have a heart!” I yell into the next room. “Get this guy out of here. He stinks to high heaven.”

  A chair scrapes against the floor, as if someone is pushing themselves back from a desk, and then the attendant enters the room. He is the stocky, bald albino—one of the more cruel Repair Shack staff members. “You fuck-nuts are getting on my nerves.”

  “Come on, you can’t seriously leave him in here,” I plead. The living dead man is really freaking me out. “What the hell happened to him?”

  “That’s RS Twenty-Nine. Ask him yourself. He’s a little drugged up right now, though. So I don’t know how much you’ll get out of him.” Albino laughs.

  “RS? What’s that? Why not CZ like the rest of us?”

  “Sorry, pal, classified. I could tell ya, but then I’d hafta kill ya.” The attendant laughs.

  I look at the thing called RS 29, wishing whoever had cooked him would’ve finished him off.

  “Hey, Twenty-Nine!” Albino yells. “You with us?”

  RS 29 stares from somewhere behind the line dividing alive and not alive.

  “I think he’s comatose,” the recluse says.

  “Well, let’s just see.” Albino pulls a pair of surgical gloves from the Kleenex-like dispenser next to the sink. He slides them on and approaches RS 29’s feet. With some pretty serious force, he smacks the bottom of the thing’s right foot.

  A little bit of life flashes into RS 29’s eyes and he jerks his foot away.

  “Nope, he’s fine.” Albino pulls off the gloves and slides them into the orange bio-waste receptacle fastened to the wall. “Stinks like shit, don’t he? But he’s alive.”

  “What’s with the smell?” I ask.

  “I guess that’s what happens when your skin starts dying right off your body. We tried to rinse him, but it just flushed more skin off. Got too messy. And that’s all I know, so don’t make me come back in here.” Albino turns and walks from the room.

  I direct my gaze to the heap of spoiled flesh and ask, “What the hell did they do to you?”

  RS 29 looks at me for a moment; his eyes once again show little life. “Doc.” His voice is weak.

  “‘Doc?’ Who’s Doc?” I turn to the recluse. “You know who Doc is?”

  “Which one? There’s a lot of ’em in here,” Mr. Nebraska answers.

  “Doc gives the shots,” the spoiled chicken says.

  “What shots?” I turn back to RS 29.

  “For the lab rat.”

  “‘Lab rat?’ What the hell does that mean?”

  “Me. I’m the lab rat.” RS 29’s eyes, red almost to point of bleeding, show he’s now tracking me.

  “‘Lab rat,’ like they’re doing some kind of research on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  RS…Research Subject! “Holy shit. Are you saying you look like that because they’re experimenting on you?” This is a whole new level of horror.

  “Yeah.”

  “How the hell did you end up being a lab rat?”

  “I got a wife and three children. No one to take care of them now,” RS 29 says. “I signed a contract. They pay my family money for my participation.”

  “Who pays your family?”

  “Drug company.”

  “They give your family money if you let them test their drugs on you?”

  RS 29 nods.

  “How much?”

  “Drug companies have lots of money. My family is taken care of.”

  “That’s fucked up,” the recluse jumps in. “I’m serious! That’s some really fucked-up shit.”

  “What kind of drugs?” I ask.

  “They don’t tell me.”

  “You look like some seriously leftover shit,” the recluse exclaims. “No, worse than that—you look like slimy-ass diarrhea. How can you stand the pain?”

  “Painkillers. Keeps me pretty messed up.”

  “You have got to be fucking shitting me,” the recluse continues. “You’re seriously letting them do this to you?”

  “Better than L-two visitors. No pain meds. If I’m lucky, they’ll end up killing me.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You smell like you’re almost there, pal.”

  “No shit,” the recluse adds.

  “So a wife and three kids? How’d you end up here, RS Twenty-Nine?” I ask, not worrying about learning his real name. He won’t be around long enough to remember it.

  “Got drunk at a convention, took a coworker back to my hotel. Accidentally killed her.” RS 29 pauses a moment and then adds, “Didn’t mean to. It got a little rough. I choked her. They say I killed her during a rape. They’re lying, though. It was consensual.”

  “So now you let them inject experimental drugs into your system?”

  “I have a family.” RS 29 turns his gaze back to the ceiling. “I don’t want to talk.”

  I lie on my bed, stunned. They’re doing experiments on exhibits now?

  Welcome to Auschwitz. Dr. Mengele to the Repair Shack, please.

  No Reason to Continue

  The Repair Shack doctor examines the recluse and declares him fit to return to his enclosure. He cries when they take him away. They all cry when they go back.

  Infection or no infection, healed or not, my hand still throbs. Always throbbing. And RS 29 stinks. I know I can get away from both the pain and the smell if I sink into my mind hole, so I close my eye
s and go away for a while. When I awaken, I am alone.

  “Where’s RS Twenty-Nine” I ask the female attendant—fat, redheaded, and ugly—when she enters to change my bandages.

  “Who’s RS Twenty-Nine?”

  “The lab rat. You know, the poor bastard you guys severely fucked up with your experimental drugs.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.” She shakes her freckled face.

  “He was just in here.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you dreamed it.”

  “I didn’t dream a fucking thing. I sure as shit didn’t dream the smell. He stunk like rotten meat. You can still smell him.”

  “Hey, One-Zero-One-Three, I don’t know what you’re talking about, don’t care. Let it go, okay?” The attendant finishes with my dressing and leaves the room.

  I am left wondering if the redhead was right. Did RS 29 really exist? Or had I been in a pain-induced delusional state? But that smell—no way I could’ve dreamed that up.

  I am once again given clearance to be returned to my enclosure. Lying on my bed, I stare into the darkness. Before I left the Repair Shack, they told me if I don’t eat something by tomorrow, the force-feedings begin.

  I have no idea how long I have been in the Zoo. A day feels like a month, a month like a year. I think maybe I’m almost through my one-year sentence. Maybe not. Maybe I’m only halfway done. Never in my life, awake or dreaming, could I have envisioned something so horrendous as my time here. It’s not fair. Life’s not supposed to be fair, Samuel.

  “Shut the fuck up, Dad.”

  I don’t deserve this. The suffering that takes place behind these walls is far worse than anything I or anyone else has ever done. No one deserves this. No one.

  The governor hasn’t come back. Was he just fucking with me? Just taking his cruelty to a new level? Offering me hope, only to slowly let it fade away? Wasn’t it bad enough that he mentally tortured me so badly I willingly chose physical torture instead?

  Fuck you, Governor Jon McIntyre.

  No governor, no reason to continue. Not in here. Not one more day. My biggest desire has become my own death. Unfortunately, all means of accomplishing this have been removed. The quote “I think, therefore I am” drifts into my head. It’s a bunch of bullshit. I think, but I am nothing. I am alive, yet I am not. My sole purpose for existence is for the sick indulgence of others.

  The eternal tortures of hell await the fornicator. The preacher’s words drift through my mind. Could this hell on earth all be due to a stupid fucking summer afternoon in a tree house with a whore named Angie? Was my whole life just punishment because of Angie? I really had trouble buying into that. The preacher didn’t know jack. The tortures of hell don’t mean a fucking thing compared to the tortures of the Criminal Zoo.

  I have been abandoned in here. I wonder why my sister hasn’t tried to contact me. Sheila could have been visiting all along. She could come as an L2, but not with intentions to hurt me. She could come and save me from suffering for at least a day. She could come in and just talk. Ask me how I’m doing, tell me how she’s doing. I would’ve done it for her. Love is supposed to know no bounds.

  Stark Raving Mad

  I am done. Not in the near future, not even tomorrow, but right now. I simply will not exist inside this place one more minute. I exhale with no intention of inhaling again. I pinch my nose closed with my right hand and I shut my mouth. I will not allow any more life-sustaining oxygen into my body.

  Within a few seconds, my lungs begin to burn. I keep my nose and mouth closed as several more seconds pass. The burn in my lungs gets worse. I really want to open my mouth, but I don’t. I fight for death. The burning gets almost unbearable and white dots of light begin to flash across my vision, yet I do not take another breath. The pain becomes excruciating, climbing from my chest into my throat and up to my brain. My skin begins to tingle as if tiny needles are sticking me everywhere. The outer edges of my consciousness become frayed, unravel. I want to breathe, to suck in a roomful of air, but I will not. It is time to leave the Zoo!

  My mouth betrays me. It pops open, flooding air into my lungs. The burn is instantly extinguished, the needles go away, and my full awareness comes back. I pant, catch my breath, and curse my failure. I punch myself in the face as hard as I can. Pain from the blow crashes through my head, but I accomplish nothing more. I break down into uncontrollable tears.

  After a few moments, I stagger to my feet, resolved to finish this here and now. I remove my Zoo-issue pants, wrap them around my neck, and begin to twist the material tighter and tighter, until all oxygen is cut off. This way, my body can’t betray me. The dancing stars of light come back in full force. My head pounds with pressure, which increases each second. I twist tighter. Light erupts all around me. The needles return. Again, the outer edges of my consciousness fade. Darkness encircles my field of vision and slowly creeps inward. I twist the pants ever tighter.

  And then everything is black.

  I awaken lying on my back, flat on the floor. My head pounds as I look into the artificial night and wonder momentarily what happened. The pants fall from my neck as I sit up. I have no idea how long I’ve been out. Using more exertion than seems necessary, I slide over to the edge of my bed and lean against it.

  I scream out a mix of rage, agony, and defeat.

  “Nice try, One-Zero-One-Three.” The smart-ass comment flows from the control room, through the little speaker in the ceiling, and into my enclosure. “Now get to bed so you can dream about another glorious day in the Zoo!”

  “Fuck you.”

  Laughter follows.

  I wonder what the weather is like outside. When I had my freedom—much like the concept of time—I never appreciated how one always had the weather to talk about. “Hot enough for you?” “Looks like rain.” “The breeze feels good.” Sayings I almost forgot existed.

  The sun, or clouds, or rain, or wind was once a guaranteed part of each day. Now, my life is void of all weather. Just like the Confinement Center, the temperature inside the Zoo will always stay the same, not a degree hotter, not a degree colder. I can no longer recall what it feels like to have the wind blow through my hair. I haven’t experienced the warmth of the sun on my back or the smell of a fresh spring rain for an eternity. Those experiences are nothing more than dreams.

  My thoughts drift to something else once taken for granted: birds. Birds flying overhead, tweeting and cawing. Birds lined up on a power line. Birds huddled together on a tree branch, seeing who can chirp the loudest. I miss birds. Their songs. What a strange thought. I never once thought about birds before all this shit started.

  Now, more than anything, I want to see a bird. A crow, sparrow, robin, it doesn’t matter. Or a cat. Or, yes, even a dog. Hell, Brutus would be better than nothing. If I could do it all over again, I wouldn’t kill him. Probably would even pet the damn thing.

  I want to hear chirping or meowing or barking, because those noises represent normalcy. And that doesn’t exist in here. No, in here all that exists are the animals known as L2s and keepers. I don’t want to see them anymore. And if I can’t see what I want to see, the birds and all that, then I don’t want to see anything anymore.

  The irony that it has taken me this long to think of it isn’t lost. I stare into the darkness a moment longer. My heart races as I realize that when the lights were turned off earlier, it was the last time I would ever see light again. Cast it out. Don’t look any more into the eyes of those who only want to hurt you. Whether its blackness or hatred they harbor, I don’t want to see it.

  I take in a deep breath and exhale slowly as I raise my right hand toward my eyes. My left hand is still bandaged and useless, will remain useless forever more. I spread my index and middle fingers apart, place one finger at each eye. “Cast it out,” I mumble. Cast them out.

  The Three Monkeys Killer is about
to pull off the ultimate Three Stooges move. I plunge my fingertips into my open eyeballs.

  The pain is instantly searing and sickening. I yank my fingers from my eyes and crumple to my knees. My eyes close reflexively and fluid pours out. I can’t tell if it’s tears or blood. My eyelids freeze shut as if to protect against any further attacks. I lean forward and vomit. I’m on my hands and knees, throwing up my guts, and the pain only gets worse. My eyes feel like they’ve been rinsed with battery acid.

  I start running around blindly in my enclosure. Running because it’s the only thing I can think to do. Trying to outrun the pain. I slam my leg into my bed, trip and land on the floor. Unconcerned about my throbbing shin, I jump back to my feet and start running again. I hit my confinement chair, topple over it, and land on my head and shoulder on the other side. The pain of the fall doesn’t even touch the pain of my eyes.

  “Fuck me!” I’m screaming as loud as I can. Running and screaming, like a lunatic. Stark, raving mad. I’ve lost my mind. I’m Van Gogh cutting off my ear. I’m—

  Out of nowhere, someone tackles me. I’m slammed to the ground, landing hard on my back. My head crashes into the floor and blackness overcomes all senses.

  My Blurry World

  Pain reaches for me, grips me with icy fingers, pulls at me. I am in the dark hole in my mind and I am confused. If I go deep enough, the pain is not supposed to find me. Yet it does. I try to pull away, but I can’t free myself from its jagged talons. My secret place has been breached.

  I open my eyes. Pain flashes through them. I quickly shut them again. Shit, I can’t go through the rest of my life with my eyes closed. So I try again, slowly allowing my eyelids to raise. Pain returns, but not quite as bad.

  The world is blurry. Really blurry. No details at all. I see shapes, barely. Not really colors. Just hues. Tones, from dark to light. I try to reach for my face but can’t. My arms are restrained. My legs too. The pain in my eyes grows steadily.