The Hollow City (9 page)

“Wow,” says Linda. “That’s very nice. I’m glad you had something about your job you liked.”

“Buildings can’t float away,” says Steve.

“Please, Steve, it’s Michael’s turn.”

“I’m done,” I say, nodding. I flex my arm again.

“Thank you for sharing with us,” says Linda. “Edward, how about you?” The frizzy-haired guy looks up, terrified, and Linda coaxes him gently. “Did you have a job, Edward?”

I keep my eye on the gate, waiting. No one comes. After several minutes someone steps into view on the far side of the gate—the same gray suit, the same blurred distorted nothing where his face should be.

He has no eyes, but I can feel his gaze boring into me. I look back and we watch each other for a moment, waiting. I can feel my breathing, calm and controlled. We say nothing. He’s the same one as before; somehow I can tell, I can
recognize
him, as if I’ve seen him a hundred times.

He walks away.

I have to get out tonight. I can’t wait. They know I’m here, and they know I’ve seen them. If they’re going to make a move, they’ll make it soon.

I have to make mine first.

*   *   *

I LIE AWAKE
, listening to the footsteps. I have to time this very carefully. First I hear Shauna go by, soft shoes padding lightly on the hard, slick floor. Her footsteps grow louder as she nears, then softer as she disappears down the hall. I wait. One of the other patients is singing, tuneless and distant. I hear a train in the background, a bass rumbling that grows and fades. Silence.

Then the other footsteps come, echoing loudly in the hallway. I see a light bobbing up and down the walls, and a dark figure pauses to peek in the small window in my door. I close my eyes and try to breathe steadily, faking sleep. The footsteps move on, and when I open my eyes I see the light receding down the hallway. I slip out of bed silently, repeating the number code in my mind: 6851. 6852. I don’t know which one to try first. The footsteps in the corridor pause occasionally, as the dark figure peeks through the doors. When they stop completely, I grip the doorknob tightly, turning it slowly and carefully so it makes no sound. I hear no reaction. I open the door quietly and release the knob just as slowly, so it doesn’t snap back with a click.

The hall is empty. I nod and slip out, closing the door behind me. I crouch as I walk, ducking below the windows in each door I pass. Ahead of me is the gate, and next to it the nurses’ office. Bright light floods into the hall. How can I get past them without being seen?

The hall fills with a faint clicking noise and I freeze, looking behind me. Nothing. Where’s it coming from? I flex my arm, thinking, and I realize I’m clicking my teeth. Click click click click click click. I clamp my hand over my mouth and find that I’m nodding, up and down, up and down. I take a deep breath and force myself to hold still. Why am I doing this? It’s like my body is moving on its own, completely out of my control.

It’s Them—they know I’m escaping, and they’re trying to take over.

I start walking again, and my arm is flexing at the elbow: back and forth, back and forth. It hits the wall with a soft thud and I grab it with my other hand, trying to hold it still, but now I’ve let go of my teeth.

Click click click click.

I stagger forward, keeping my eyes on the gate; it bobs up and down as my head nods furiously. Five steps closer. Ten steps closer. I hear footsteps behind me, far away; I spin around, but there’s nothing behind me. He’s still around the corner—hurry up!

Five more steps. Five more after that. My arm flexes against my chest, held tightly by my other arm. Click click click click click. My body is turning against me, part by part, as Their buried control system batters itself against my mind. Five more steps. I’m almost to the nurses’ office.

I release my arm and grab my mouth, shoving my fingers between my teeth to muffle the noise; if I keep away from the walls my arm won’t hit anything and give me away. My teeth keep biting, too soft to draw blood. The footsteps behind me grow louder. I creep forward, nodding wildly, my eyes hot with tears.

I can just see into the nurses’ office, peering around the corner. A woman sits at a desk, her back to me—not Shauna but someone else, a large woman I’ve never seen. Where’s Shauna? This means there are three people, not two; I don’t know if I can hide from them all. The footsteps behind me pause, and I look back. Nothing. I hold my breath and slip forward, my arm flailing through space, and walk right past the open door. The nurse doesn’t turn around.

Five more steps, soft as a whisper.

On the far side of the door I sink to my knees, ducking below the open window to the office. The computer monitor looms above me, buzzing softly. My teeth move up and down, up and down. I reach the gate. My right arm flexes.

How can I even enter the code?

I take my hand out of my mouth and grit my teeth tightly, half of my jaw muscles fighting the others. They make no noise. I use my left hand to guide my flailing right down to the floor, where I kneel on it to hold it in place.

The footsteps start again. He’ll be at the corner any moment. I reach out with my left hand toward the keypad, and my fingers buzz when they get close. Of course it’s electronic! I curse silently. They’ll know I’m here the instant I touch it! I can’t help it—there’s no other way. I force my hand forward and type in the code: 685 … do I hit the 1 or the 2? The footsteps behind grow louder.

Just do it!

2. The latch clicks softly, and the gate swings open. I rise up from my knees and dart forward, my right arm swinging wildly; it cracks against the gate and I grunt, trying to hold back the pain. There’s a noise from the office, and I close the gate behind me. The latch clicks loudly.

“Who’s there?”

The hallway beyond the gate stretches out on both sides, and I dive right to stay out of sight. I grab my arm to hold it still and stagger forward past a row of offices, each one dark and empty. At the first intersection I pause, thinking.

Should I just leave? Or should I try to learn something first?

There’s something going on here; that much is obvious. If I run I can get away, and if I run fast I might get away for good—leave the city, disappear, and never come back. Maybe I could find a farm somewhere, far away from cell phones and TVs and anything else they could use to find me. But the thing is, what if I’m not the only one they’re trying to find? A Plan this big, a conspiracy this ubiquitous, doesn’t make any sense if it’s all focused on me. I’m not that important—Vanek is right about that much. They must be planning something larger, and whatever it is, the key might be right here, in this hospital. If I can find out what it is, I might be able to figure out a way to stop them.

Click click click click. I’m losing control of my jaw again. I peek around the corner and feel a stab of fear—it’s a cafeteria, buzzing with electricity from a sea of fluorescent lights, refrigerated counters, vending machines, microwaves. I pull back, panting and nodding, and lean against the wall. Where do I go from here?

I can’t go forward. Even if the two doctors chatting at a table don’t see me, the devices will—the Faceless Men will know I’m there the instant I step out past the wall. I turn back and move softly down the hall, looking at the names on each office door as I pass: Skarstedt. Beisinger. Zobell. I reach the turnoff to the secure wing and pause, listening.

“I swear I heard the gate.”

“But we’re the only ones here.”

I don’t recognize either voice. I peek around the corner, clenching my jaw as tight as I can. The heavy nurse is standing in the doorway of the office, talking to a black-clad security guard. Neither is looking in my direction.

“The janitor, maybe?”

“He knows he has to check in with me.”

I take the chance and run past the gate, stepping lightly. There are more doors this way, and a dark corner at the end of the hall that might be a stairway.

“Wait, what was that?”

“I’m calling this in; something’s going on.”

The gate clangs behind me as someone comes through, and I race past more doors: Olsen. Layton. Little. I duck into Dr. Little’s darkened office, clutching my arm tightly to keep it from swinging; my head nods so much I can barely see straight. I crouch against the wall as the security guard runs past me down the hall—the same loud, heavy steps I hear every night. I glance around the room, desperate for anything that could help me escape—

The office is covered with photographs: pinned to the walls, spread across the desk, spilling to the floor. Portraits too dim to see. My eyes focus and my pupils widen, adapting to the dark, and slowly I’m surrounded by faces—no, not faces. Heads. I choke down a cry, stifling my own terror: every photo is a corpse, mangled and bloody, the face torn off and bashed in. I stagger back and hit the wall, panting with terror. They’re everywhere.

Information—I’m here for information. I step back to the table, jaw clenched, arms folded tightly around me, and look at the photos. Each one is marked with a date: two months ago. Three months ago. One. Ten victims, just like Kelly said, starting eight months ago and ending—for now—right in the middle of my two missing weeks. I stare at the most recent photo: a man in a brown jumpsuit, like a janitor. B
RANDON
W
OODS
, says the label. C
HEMCOM
I
NDUSTRIAL
C
HEMICALS
. Just like the FBI guy said. His face has been viciously destroyed, carved with a knife or bashed with a hammer or—I don’t even want to think about what could have done it. J
UNE 27
, it says. Right in the middle of my missing memories.

I hear voices outside, but no one looks in. The door’s still ajar, but I don’t dare close it; I duck out of view, crouching by a filing cabinet. My files are probably in it. I wait for the voices to recede again and slowly press the button on the third drawer: N through S. I flip through the files, pull out my own, and scan through the notes:

My dosage of Loxitane isn’t working and needs to be increased.

I resist treatment, but recently joined a social therapy session.

I display violent tendencies and need to be watched very closely.

Near the back is a half-filled report on Dr. Little’s diagnosis:

Michael Shipman was treated for generalized anxiety disorder early last year, was deemed stable, and was released in early July with a prescription for Klonopin. During therapy and observation he showed no signs of active delusion. While his schizophrenia may have been present much earlier, we estimate that it did not become acute until approximately November, based on interviews with his father and employer.…

I stop reading. November was eight months ago, right about the time that I stopped going to therapy. Right about the time that I stopped taking Klonopin.

Right about the time that the Red Line started killing.

“Freeze!” shouts the security guard, and suddenly he’s right there, filling the door, his Taser in my face. I step away and raise my hands, but as soon as my right arm gets free it flies out, flexing and twitching, and the security guard fires.

NINE

EVERY MUSCLE IN MY BODY
betrays me, some contracting into rigid bricks, others melting into loose, useless jelly. I fall against something and hit the floor in the flurry of papers and books.

“It’s a patient! I think it’s the one from 404—holy crap!”

My arm twitches again, flying across me in a wide arc. I try to get my bearings, but my eyes are still adjusting to the light, and my body is still too stunned to tell up from down. I can’t seem to move anything on purpose.

“He’s still moving!”

“You shocked him?” The second voice is softer, more feminine, and dripping with worry. Shauna. I manage to roll my head a few inches to the side. “What happened?”

“He swung at me. I couldn’t even see who it was.”

“How did he get out here?”

I try to speak, gurgle helplessly, and manage to raise my head. Almost instantly someone grabs me from behind, locking me in a security hold that keeps me fully immobile.

“Call Dr. Little—tell him one of his patients broke into his office.” Footsteps cross the floor, a phone rattles in its housing.

My tongue is looser now, and my head is clearing up. “I need…”

“Easy, man,” says the guard. “How’s your legs, can you walk?”

“I need to get out of here.” Click click click click. My teeth again.

“Just answer the question: can you walk? Can we stand up?”

“Hello, Dr. Little,” says Shauna. “I’m sorry to call you at this hour but we have a situation.” The guard pulls me to my knees, pauses a minute while I gain my balance, then pulls me to my feet. “One of the patients in lockdown escaped,” says Shauna. “No, he didn’t get far, but he went straight for your office. It’s Michael Shipman.”

I get to my feet and look at Shauna, but it’s not Shauna—it’s the other nurse, the heavy one from the office. She’s older, mid-fifties maybe, with thick arms and permed, graying hair.

“Where’s Shauna?”

The guard tightens his grip. “Who’s Shauna?”

“The night nurse,” I say. “She’s here every night.” I stare at the other nurse, confused. “Who are you?”

The nurse looks at me, but speaks into the phone. “He seems very disoriented, Doctor. Yes, we will. All right, we’ll see you in a bit.” She hangs up.

“Where’s Shauna?” I’m scared now—a sick, vertiginous feeling in my gut, like I’m about to fall through the floor into a vast, bottomless nothing. “Why are these pictures in here? What’s going on?”

“Easy, Michael,” says the guard. “Let’s get you back into your room, okay?”

“Maybe Shauna’s that girl he keeps talking about,” says the nurse.

“Shauna is the night nurse!” I shout. “What have you done with her?”

The nurse glances at the guard behind me, worry etched into her face. “I’m the night nurse, Michael. My name is Sharon. Do you remember me?”

I stare at her, remembering a face in the dark. Remembering peaches that didn’t taste like peaches. “What’s going on?”

“Let’s get him back to his room.”