The Four Stages Of Cruelty Part 24

I struggled to get out the words.

"He's dead, I think." I looked over at Cutler's slumped body, the red puffiness on his head like the plumage of some exotic bird. "Alvin Cutler is dead. We have an intruder. We were compromised." I didn't know the words.

Another voice came on. I heard a tone of recrimination in the follow-up questions and could not seem to make myself understood.

"What happened to Cutler?" the voice asked me.

"Cutler was. .h.i.t with his own baton. The reporter. Stone. I killed him, I think."

I knew I wasn't making sense, but the absence of any response drove my frustration higher.

"Droune did it! Droune opened the G.o.dd.a.m.n gates!"

No response again.

"Maintain your control."

It came as a disjointed command, something I wasn't sure I heard properly, and the radio went dead.

I gave up, and peeked above the deck to look at the consoles and through the gla.s.s. A torrent of freedom all around. Each monitor told a different story. Men running along the tiers in the cellblocks, crawling down fences, ripping away railings, ramming, wrenching, pounding at the walls and gates. A maelstrom of violence. This was not reparable. This was the book of Revelation. I felt numb with shock and helplessness. I could not put the genie back in the bottle. None of the gate switches worked. None of the doors would respond. They'd blocked and jammed everything, securing their exits and entrances. There was no battle out there, no shots being fired, the war already won. The COs had fallen back to the perimeters. Maybe there were pockets of them trapped in the blocks, the infirmary, or dis, but I was alone in the bubble. Then the monitors started to go blank, the cameras out on the blocks and in the tunnels covered up or knocked violently from their perches. I gripped the baton in my hand and squeezed my eyes shut.

43.

When the others ran from their cells, Josh stayed inside. Screen Door appeared, arms braced on both sides of Josh's suddenly opened entranceway, and told him the block was inmate land now. "What do you think?" she asked, with a hand sweeping along her front, and Josh realized that Screen Door had fashioned a prison jumpsuit into some kind of evening dress, low on her smooth caramel-skinned chest, tight around the hips, trailing at the ankles. Then Screen Door waved and tottered off, and Josh was alone.

He thought he'd known the level of noise that could be generated by the men within the block, but he'd underestimated the depth of human arousal, the furious glee of sudden freedom, the expansiveness of its rage and joy. There was the bellow of many voices shouting and whooping, the pounding of running feet, the crash of steel toilet units smashed into warped fragments on the concrete floor below, the wrenching away of metal railings set in concrete and stone like dinosaur fossils. He braced within his cave and thought about how he might rip his own cot from the wall, set it up as a barricade, even as he wondered if that would provoke or protect. Then, after too many men running by slowed to look at him suspiciously, he lunged up from his squatted stance and stepped out.

He spotted Roy at the end of the tier, whooping to the men above and below, shouting commands. Whether anyone could hear or was bothering to listen didn't seem to matter. Roy acted like a maestro conducting an orchestra, coaxing some rage here, dampening some anger there, engorged by the hysteria. He saw Josh watching from afar and waved him forward. "Come on, Joshy! You're needed!" It was impossible to disobey such a direct command, so Josh made his way down the range, squeezing tight as others ran by, stepping over chunks of concrete and twisted pipes, careful not to edge too close to the gaps, the railings dangling like fragments of broken bridge over open s.p.a.ce.

Roy slapped a heavy arm over Josh's shoulder and squeezed him close to his side. "Now you'll know what human beings can do when the lid's off, Joshy. You may never witness anything like it again for as long as you live."

They watched. Then water suddenly poured down from the railings above and curtained across the tier. Josh fought a sense of vertigo, as though he stood on the lower deck of a ship that had just rolled in a great swell and got swamped. The men yelled their surprise first, then their questions, and then their hearty appreciation. Toilets and sinks had been plugged, he supposed, and the water allowed to overflow until it made an impressive waterfall. The flood ended after several minutes, and someone yelled that the water was cut off.

"Beautiful." Roy smiled. "There goes the water. As if we wouldn't need to have a drink over the next few days. They'd burn their own clothes just to see a bonfire, and then complain that it was cold."

The television signal was next, all the small TV screens in cells lost in a sudden blink. In their place, boom boxes with batteries fought for audio room, the thumping rap rhythms and heavy rock colliding in a pileup of noise with the shouts and the bangs and the crashes and cries.

He was in on it but not part of it, hanging near Roy's shoulder, only occasionally noticed. The men played their parts so earnestly it almost seemed like a game, a fantasy gone delusional and b.l.o.o.d.y. Roy was the only one who seemed even remotely self-aware. He did and said everything, even the most violent things, with a mocking tone, terrifying and humorous at once.

"Let's review the troops," Roy announced, and they left their perch and walked the tiers together.

Wherever they went, Roy was the locus of a moving storm. He answered questions and received adulations and expressions of support. He made decisions like Napoleon, though they seemed random and sometimes contradictory to Josh. He cast words of encouragement or scorned and mocked men who were doing stupid or self-destructive things. He told the men to set up the barricades. Count and secure the hostages. Police the tiers to protect the helpless from the wolves and a.s.sa.s.sins. Establish communication. Build the traps, find the food, and have b.l.o.o.d.y fun. On several of the tiers the men were knocking holes in the drum walls, connecting drum to drum, creating a crooked tunnel you could walk from end to end, the concrete chunks piled up in front of the gate and along the tier fence like a construction site. It looked as though an earthquake had twisted the entire building in its powerful hands.

A few of the men acted like wannabe lieutenants and community leaders. They asked for permission to set up food search committees, radio transmission committees, dome watch committees, so many committees that it became comical, a bizarre play at democracy. Roy blessed them as though he'd been waiting for exactly such virtuous knights to step forward and do his bidding. Men told him about the stores of pipes they'd collected, the spears and machetes they'd fashioned, the flashlights, radios, cans of coffee, notepads, and coils of rope they'd squirreled away. The industriousness was impressive. Roy stirred their flames with one breath and muttered his contempt as soon as they'd hustled off. "You'll all be in chains by morning, you idiots. Jump and holler and let your worst out. Leave no urge or want behind."

As per another of Roy's commands, the hostages were secured in the drums at the back of B-4, despite the ease-some argued-with which a single group could be rescued in an a.s.sault. The diddlers and skinners were crammed like a freezer truck full of illegal immigrants in the two last drums, eyes wide in fear. Eight jacks were s.p.a.ced across the next three drums, their uniforms torn, their arms pinned back by their own zip cuffs. Brute men stood guard at the drum entrances, their orders from Roy clear and precise: keep the men alive and safe, no matter how much verbal sport got made. Those with a curiosity or an urge for wanton cruelty sauntered by and peeked in, mocked and challenged, sometimes tried to squeeze through, and got thrust back. Roy encouraged them all, the attackers and the defenders, and he a.s.sured the captives that they were safe and their every need would be taken care of. The COs, Josh thought, looked weary and defiant but very very afraid. An inmate whispered in Roy's ear, and he nodded sagely and announced a new command. The hostages would have their uniforms stripped and be changed into green inmate garb. What's more, the homemade napalm bombs (a stack of capped soda bottles in the corridor) would be transferred to the drums containing the COs. That way, when the a.s.sault teams came or the snipers fired, they'd be picking off their own kind or blowing them up, and they could think about that when the counting of dead bodies was going on later.

"Make a flag," Roy told Josh. "Give us something we can rally around."

So Josh and Screen Door got to work on a white sheet, found some black paint and outlined a skull on it, and duct-taped it to a broomstick. When Josh brought it out to the gallery railing, Roy told him to hold it up high and wave it back and forth. The men loved it, cheering, whooping, and Roy barked harshly through a bullhorn stolen out of the block nest.

"In all my years I've never seen the jacks run so fast. You're excellent soldiers, even if no army in the world would ever take you." He roared with laughter and caused the others to laugh, too.

Then to Josh in a low, casual voice with the bullhorn lowered, "Look how scared they are."

"They don't look scared to me." He'd seen too much madness in the past few hours to think of them as scared.

"It's plain as mud," Roy said. "In any riot there's five or six men who got the will, and the rest follow like a herd of mad horses."

Josh saw Jacko make his way down the tier toward them. He'd been wondering where Fenton, Cooper Lewis, and the others were and what they were doing. Jacko looked determined, busy, like an office manager with a to-do list.

"We've got a visitor," Jacko announced when he stood with them.

"Already?" Roy said. "Tell me the warden is here, please."

"It's Keeper Wallace," Jacko answered.

Roy shrugged. "No surprise there. And not much fun either. Oh well, let sourpuss come in."

A single CO was led out of the tunnel and onto the block by two inmates. Everyone hushed, seeing the Keeper below, awed by the audacity of his presence, the calm poise he showed. Then the shouting started again. They scorned him. They wanted to tear the Keeper to pieces.

"Wave the flag, Josh!" Roy urged him. "Wave it with all you've got. We need a truce!"

From the third tier Roy shouted through the bullhorn until the men finally calmed themselves.

Keeper Wallace looked very alone, and Josh was tight with guilt at the sight of him. How brave did you have to be to walk into a cellblock full of loosened inmates? There was an obstinacy to it, a declaration of the Keeper's rightful place in a stolen kingdom. This was Wallace's domain, his presence said, no matter how overturned the world had become, and he was there to serve justice to the despoilers.

The inmates crowded the tiers like spectators in a Roman gallery. With Josh at his side, Roy lifted the bullhorn again and made his speech, a show for the Keeper's benefit and the inmates' rea.s.surance.

"This uprising is a call for justice and better conditions."

The announcement roused a tremendous thunder among the men.

"It was inspired by the systematic mistreatment of our brothers."

He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, and Josh saw many of the men nodding.

"No one feels safe with all the brutality, oppression, and revenge that permeates this inst.i.tution. We want to investigate the outlaw guard criminals among your ranks-"

The noise became impossible to withstand. Josh cringed and looked for the roof to fall, the walls to cave in.

"To end the practice of turning inmates into snitches! We want better living conditions and more free time outside the ranges! We want an inmate justice committee with the authority to investigate abusive and corrupt guards and staff. All the way to the top! We want immunity for all the crimes committed in the launching of this justified revolt."

And who, with concrete dust in their hair and wrenched pipes in their hands, could deny the virtue in that?

"In return," speaking to the lonely figure below, "I give you my solemn promise that for as long as I am the voice of these men, none of the hostages will be harmed."

The enthusiasm petered out, and there was a discordant confusion of banging and shouts. Josh could even hear some men protesting Roy's list, adding bullet points of their own, questioning his authority.

"And now," Roy said, still into the bullhorn but in a quieter voice, "I will meet you in the tunnel to present you with a written list of our terms-" And he gave up, lowering the bullhorn and looking to Josh. "Maybe I should have spoke from the higher level, do you think?" Josh didn't know what to say. "f.u.c.k it, let's get down there and get this over with."

Josh left the flag leaning against the railing and walked alongside Roy to the stairs. His pulse flickered wildly with the dread he felt facing the Keeper.

When they reached him, Roy nodded thanks to the inmates who'd handed the Keeper over, and gestured to Wallace to follow him back into the tunnel.

"Join us in the shadows if you don't mind, Keeper."

Wallace stepped closer. He glanced at Josh, disdain in that pinched mouth. "Keeper," Roy said, pa.s.sing a folded piece of paper over. "I've always respected you for the way you run a fair shift. I only wish the majority of COs in this s.h.i.t-hole did the same, or we might not be in this position."

Wallace said nothing, just waited him out with grim disdain, and the tactic drove Roy to be hasty and anxious in his words.

"You know how the boys are," Roy confided. "Their blood's boiling, and G.o.d knows what they're capable of doing. It's a struggle to keep the lid on, and I'd appreciate some help. The better you make me look in meeting some of our more reasonable demands-for food, TV, etcetera-the more cred I get. Otherwise, there's ten guys waiting to take my place, each motherf.u.c.king one of them less reasonable than yours truly. If you could start with some sandwiches and coffee for the boys, that would go over well. We're starving already, and I don't put cannibalism past half of them."

He laughed at his own joke, but Wallace didn't smile.

"Here are my terms, Roy," Wallace said. "This ends now. Every inmate returns to his cell until we secure the hub and the blocks. Then we will a.s.sess what happened and who instigated it, and charge and prosecute each and every man for his part. No discussion."

Roy scratched his chest and gazed past Wallace down the tunnel beyond, as if checking for the arrival of some delayed train. When he looked back, he seemed disappointed and grim.

"Why, that's hardly the kind of response I can bring to the boys without causing upset. Keeper, you want me in this position, believe me. Every minute goes by, old Roy's power diminishes just a little bit more. That's the way the game gets played. But as you can imagine, I'm going to go back and sell them on some bulls.h.i.t story, same as you will on your end, and all of this is going to be a b.l.o.o.d.y mess no matter what we say to each other." He tapped his wooden leg on the stone floor. "There are a couple paltry things you could do for me, though, if you want to avoid a hostage being executed before the night is out."

Josh had heard nothing of an execution, but there was a harsh honesty in Roy's tone that led him to believe it was truly in the plans.

"We want the comic book Crowley drew in Brother Mike's art cla.s.s."

Wallace blinked. Josh could tell he was surprised. "What comic book? What are you talking about?"

"We know you have it. That Brother Mike gave it to you."

"That's not true. I don't know what you mean."

Roy laughed. "Then Brother Mike must still have it. And he says I have a lying problem. What a scoundrel. Here's the deal, then. Tell him we want it. And make sure he delivers it, personally and alone."

The Keeper's dark eyes opened wide. "Are you out of your mind? I can't ask a civilian to walk in here."

"Chief, you and I both know Brother Mike would be willing to exchange himself for a couple of tired, hungry, scared COs. If he brings it, we'll release a hostage or two in his place. Be thankful I'm not asking for an airplane to Cuba. Just take care of my urgent needs, and I'll take care of your hostages and inmates. On that, I'm not f.u.c.king with you even a little. There are some among us eager to slit a throat."

"All right, Roy. With what little authority I have left, I'll make your case." He looked to Josh. "Let him come with me now. We'll walk out, and you walk back. I'll get your d.a.m.n comic book. And I'll see you in a cell by this time tomorrow."

"Sorry, Keeper, I'll need our friend here to keep an eye on my back. But I promise I'll do what I can to keep him out of the worst of harm's way. You know I'm fond of him. Think about the ones like Josh when you're telling your snipers where to line up. You'll be killing people who don't deserve killing, and you know it."

The Keeper pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to Roy.

"You can reach me on this when it's necessary to talk. There's only one number programmed into it. Just hit send."

Roy slipped the cell phone into his pocket. "You mean I can't order a pizza?"

He put his arm across Josh's shoulder and nudged him around. Josh could sense the Keeper watching him leave. If Josh wanted to, he probably could have broken away, raced down the tunnel, crying and running like h.e.l.l. But it was easier to return to the madness than make a spectacle of his own fear.

44.

I longed for fresh air and sleep. I wanted to drink. I needed to urinate badly.

Cutler was all death, and I didn't go near. He lay in a half slump against the wall, his face slacker than it had been when muscular impulses toned the flesh, his hair clumpy with red, his chin tilted downward, his eyes gone opaque and dull.

Stone was not dead. He'd rolled over and lay, like a twisted sandbag, on his side. His face was swollen as though it had been boiled in the sun, and it was caked everywhere with a hard crust of mucus. It was a wonder to me that he could breathe. A blubbering sound came from him occasionally, as though he were trying to cough up phlegm.

Outside, the battering lost its intensity. The inmates did not walk the hub freely, but seemed to be hanging out in the entrances to the tunnels, sometimes running from one tunnel to the other, low to the ground, zigzagging, as if to avoid a sniper shot. The hub was in darkness, and I'd turned off the lights in the bubble, too. Searchlights swept by, altering the world around me in a pa.s.sing instance, illuminating furniture, the wall. Now and then I peered up and out the windows to survey the hub. I hoped each time to find it empty, and imagined running wildly across the open s.p.a.ce and flinging myself through one of the doors to the perimeter of safety. The radio stayed silent. Had the inmates somehow cut the signal? That didn't make sense. I wanted someone to talk to me. I wanted to hear a voice explaining the details of what was going on, and the strategy for how and when they were going to retake the hub and the blocks. I wondered if they'd switched channels. Was there a protocol for that? I couldn't get my brain to focus.

Instead, crouched below the console deck, I remembered a nighttime rocket attack in Iraq. I was living on the base. Those of us who thought of it had grabbed our rifles. The rest waited for the lull before making the embarra.s.sing retrieval. Outside, the air was exhilarating, the stray whiff of burning powder. Some of us shot off rounds, little sparks and snaps sent spinning off into the darkness. When we moved, we did so in coordinated jumps and stops. Training that seemed so fake and macho had worked its way into our brains somehow. The best part was the elation once we knew the attack had been choked off and that it was random rather than the big a.s.sault everyone secretly feared. We shared the intensity of the experience. We grinned easily for a change. That feeling faded hard in the grime of daily life afterward, but I never forgot the glory of that night.

This time it was different. This time I felt only loneliness and fear. It didn't help that I was beaten up. Every breath was like a scaling knife grating my lungs. There were sore spots all over my face. Whenever I touched a cut or accidentally wiped my face with my forearm, I blinked more pain into my eyes with the rub of chemical agent. More than anything, I longed to stand beneath a shower and let cold water run over me for hours.

Stone spoke to me, his eyes cracking open into red slits, his swollen lips moving. "It's going to be fun," he mumbled, "when they get in. You're going to love it." Then he stopped talking and closed his eyes again.

When they get in. Stone was right. It was only a matter of time before they got determined about that. I had no idea whether they could force their way into the bubble or not, but if they did, they would have access to the armaments room and the Remingtons and flash grenades. Whatever else happened, I didn't want to see them get those weapons. The escalation of the riot would be unthinkable. A siege. An occupied city. But what could I do?

I was sluggish in my thinking, a reaction perhaps to the stress or trauma, or an injury from Stone's beating I did not want to acknowledge. It took me an hour to work through it, the idea forming slowly, and then I understood what I wanted to do. Stone was unconscious. I crept away from the console deck and over him, fearful that he could reach up even though his swollen arms were zipped behind his back. I opened up the hatch and went down into the darkness.

I did not dare turn a light on down below, worried that it would burst brightness into the room above. I let my eyes adjust to the blackness. Could I hide out down here, armed to the f.u.c.king teeth? It would not, I decided, prevent the inmates from getting the weapons. I could kill three or five as they came down the hatch stairs before the others got me, and the end result would be the same.

The weapons were stored in the armory lockers. I typed the code into the electronic keypad and opened the doors, then listened for more noise up top. Rea.s.sured, I took a moment to squat with my pants down and let the urine drizzle down onto the floor. Then I got busy.

There were six Remington pump-actions in the rack and twelve boxes of cartridges, plus a box of six flashbangs or stun grenades, along with four flashlights, two full sets of riot clothes, and one shield. I clipped a heavy flashlight and two flashbangs to my belt, and then I unhooked one of the Remingtons from the rack, bottom loaded it with two cartridges, and shoved four more cartridges into my pocket. I put the remaining boxes of cartridges into a tool bag and slung the heavy load over my shoulder.

The entrance to the City was taped over with yellow, but at the bottom of the stairs the door was still unlocked. I stepped down, guided by the beam from the flashlight at my waist, and pushed the door open with my foot. The cold, damp air came up at me. I breathed hard in spite of myself, remembering Crowley. There are no ghosts, I told myself, but even so, I did not like the taste of that air in my mouth. Inside, I leaned the Remington against the wall and hauled the bag of sh.e.l.l cartridges into one of the cryptlike cells. In the corner of the floor was a small but open drain. With shaking fingers I poured a box of sh.e.l.ls into the hole. Then I opened another box and did the same until I'd gotten rid of each spare sh.e.l.l, except for the two in the Remington and the two in my pocket. Guns don't kill people. Bullets do.

I breathed better as I climbed the stairs out of the City and emerged in the armaments room. I started for the flashbangs, but heard a noise in the bubble above and realized the hatch door had been closed. I'd left it open when I came down, and now I felt the sickness a small animal must feel hiding in a dark cave when a larger animal has returned.

Were they above me? I tried to get my breathing back and listened intensely for mumbled conversation, a footstep, any kind of tell. I heard a thump and a bang, but nothing coherent to give me a picture of the situation. With the loaded Remington I crept skyward, step by step, until I reached the hatch door; then I propped it open a sliver with my hand and tried to see out, but could glimpse nothing. I flung it back, ran the next two steps, and saw Stone, seated in a chair, raking the side of his face against the console deck.

His hands were still zipped. He was trying to operate the switches, randomly I supposed, with insect-like determination. I took two strides to him and yanked him back hard, then kicked the chair away and sent it spinning toward the hatch.