The Hollow City

  Vanek nods. “Saner words were never spoken. Tell me, Michael, have you seen any more of the Faceless Men?”

  I shake my head. “Of course not. You told me yourself they aren’t real.” I click my teeth. “I’m not crazy.”

  He smiles thinly. “Two weeks ago you used their reality as evidence of your sanity; now you use their unreality as evidence of the same. You can either be crazy then or crazy now, but given that you’ve mentioned the Faceless Men at all you have to be one or the other.” He stands up. “Think about your story more carefully the next time you talk to Dr. Little.”

  He walks away, and I stare at my tray. He’s right: I can’t claim to be cured without acknowledging that I was sick, at least for a while. I nod, twice, searching for an answer.

  “Medicine time,” says Devon, and I shy back reflexively. Will his cell phone go off again? He sets a small plastic cup on the table next to me; there’s two Loxitane in it, half green and half tan, like camouflage. “Everything going okay?”

  “Great,” I say, picking up the cup. It doesn’t matter what they think; I can escape now. I click my teeth. “I’m great, thank you for asking.” I swallow the pills and wash them down with apple juice. It’s time to get out of here.

  EIGHT

  SOMEONE WALKS THE HALLS at night. It’s not Shauna, the pretty nurse, though I know she’s there as well; her footsteps are soft and gentle, like she’s wearing slippers. I can hear her go up and down the halls, checking our vitals and meting out drugs. But when she stops, and the halls fall silent, that’s when the other footsteps come. They’re heavy, and loud, and the space between them is wider; whoever they belong to has longer legs, and a longer stride. His shoes click on the floor like the ticks of a clock.

  I use more soap than the other patients, scrubbing my hair and body extra hard to make up for the cold water. I don’t dare use the hot, and I never go in the showers when someone else is already there. They can control which spigot is connected to the cyanide, just like they can control which devices are watching me.

  I sit in the commons room, waiting for Lucy, watching the patients and the nurses and the doctors and wondering who they are. I watch them walk around, all stiff limbs and floppy joints and bodies so solid they block the world right out. I’m surrounded by water and meat, by dead hair and slow, shuffling circuits. I listen to them talk and the words make no sense: tile. Tile tile tile tile tile. Words lose all meaning. I wonder how these creatures can communicate at all.

  And then I’m back, and I wonder what it was that bothered me so much.

  It’s been almost three weeks since Lucy came in, and I haven’t seen her since; I have to assume They got to her. I have to find her. If I can figure out the key code for the gate, I can escape.

  I start by setting up a chair in the lunch area, with a clear view of the gate, but it’s too far away—I have pretty good eyesight, but at that distance everything melts together and I can’t tell one number from another. I need to get closer. I try walking right up to the nurse in the side office, hoping to make small talk until someone walks up and uses the keypad, but I can’t do it—the nurse’s computer is right there, just a few feet away. I can feel it like a buzz in my head, burrowing in, trying to get control. I wave at the nurse and go back to the commons room.

  It’s the TV that eventually gives me my chance; irony’s like that sometimes. Every morning at ten-thirty Dr. Linda holds a group therapy session in the TV area, where all the nice couches are; not only do they turn off the TV, but the group is big enough that it spills just slightly into the hallway. I watch them from the cafeteria tables, calculating the distance. If I pull over a chair and sit right there, I’d have a perfect view of the keypad from only a dozen feet away. I stand up and drag my chair across the room.

  “Hello, Michael,” says Linda. “Thank you for joining us this morning.”

  I sit down. “Hi.”

  “This is a social therapy group, Michael. Today we’re talking about jobs and responsibility.”

  “I had a job,” says Steve. “I worked in a bookstore. I could sell anything.”

  “That’s wonderful,” says Linda. “Tell us about it.”

  I zone out while Steve talks about how important he used to be, and subtly turn an eye to the hallway. I can see the keypad clearly. All I need is for someone to use it.

  “I could sell anyone a mystery,” says Steve. “It didn’t matter what they came in for, I could send them out with a mystery.”

  “Why do you think that was?”

  “They always want to know how it ends.”

  Devon walks past me toward the nurses’ office. He stops and chats with the lady by the computer. Just use the gate! He says something too low for me to hear. She laughs. I flex my arm: open, close, open, close.

  “What were some of your responsibilities in the bookstore, Steve?” asks Linda.

  “I did everything,” he says. “I had to do everything because nobody else ever did anything.”

  “Did you help open the store?”

  “No, the manager did that before I got there.”

  The nurse by the computer says something else, and it’s Devon’s turn to laugh. He waves good-bye and reaches for the keypad. 6. 8. 5. Another nurse joins him, blocking my view.

  “Michael?”

  I spin my head around, my heart beating rapidly. Linda and the patients are looking at me. Do they know what I was looking at? Do they know what I’m doing?

  “Did you have a job before you came here, Michael?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. I try to soothe my nerves and pull myself together. I nod. “I worked in a bakery. Mueller’s Bakery, the place with the coal oven.”

  “I’ve never eaten there,” says Linda, “but it sounds delicious. What did you do there?”

  I hear the gate click; Devon’s already through, and I missed the numbers. I click my teeth a few times. “I helped load and unload stuff, like bags of flour and trays of bread and stuff like that. Mr. Mueller did everything by hand—all the mixing and the kneading and everything, like in the old days. No machines at all.”

  “It sounds like you had a lot of work to do, then,” says the doctor. “What was your favorite part?”

  “Don’t answer that,” says a voice. “You don’t have to tell them anything without a warrant.” I look around, but it doesn’t look like any of the other patients said anything. I flex my arm.

  Why am I flexing my arm?

  “I wish I’d worked in a bread store,” says Steve. “I hated that bookstore.”

  “Please be respectful, Steve,” says Linda. “It’s Michael’s turn to talk.”

  I look back at the gate. There’s nobody there. I glance the other way and see another orderly walking toward us from the back rooms. Is he coming to us, or to the gate?

  I turn back to Linda. “My favorite part was the heat.” I try to drag it out—to tell her everything I can about the bakery so that she can’t ask any more questions until I’m done, and nothing can distract me from the keypad. “I know that sounds weird, but I liked it.” I nod. “It was hot and dry, like a cave in the desert, and you could just sit there and enjoy it, the heat and the smell of yeast, and pretend you were a lizard hiding under a rock. Maybe a dinosaur.” The orderly walks past us to the gate; I turn my head just far enough to see the keypad, and try to make it look like I’m staring into nothing. “I used to stand in the back, in the red dark by the ovens, and listen to the sound of the walls popping as the heat pressed out against them.” 6. 8. “I’d pretend I was in a balloon, filling up with hot air, and eventually I’d just float away.” 5. His arm moves and I miss the last number—a 1? Maybe a 2? It had to be one of those. 6851. Or 2. If I enter the wrong code, will it set off an alarm?

  “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. BRANDON WOODS, says the label. CHEMCOM INDUSTRIAL CHEMICALS. 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. JUNE 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.…