The next morning, Ollie woke to a kick in the ribs.
“Up, both of you,” a female guard growled. “Clean-up needed in the office.”
Ollie rolled over, confused and groggy, in his burlap sack. The guard was already gone.
“Shee-it,” Dozer drawled from across the room.
“What’s she talking about?” Ollie asked, rubbing his eyes. “What office?”
“The office,” Dozer said with a groan. “There’s only one.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, put on your best duds, bud. We’re going to see the Warden.”
Ollie felt a chill run up his back, remembering the oily man, the circle of children, the deadly yellow fog. The Warden was clearly a man best avoided. Marching straight into his office, wherever that was, seemed like a colossally bad idea.
“Does it have to be us?” Ollie asked.
Dozer flashed him an incredulous look and didn’t bother to answer.
The two men slipped on their jumpsuits and headed into the hallway, where a different grouchy guard was waiting with a mountain of cleaning supplies for the unspecified task ahead. Ollie and Dozer gathered up the various brushes, mops, and liquids and began to follow him through the maze of hallways.
Four days, Ollie thought to himself. Four on the Labor Force, plus one in the holding cell on his first day. If Laszlo had been right, that meant he was five days down on a three-week deadline. Sixteen days left.
The guard was twenty or thirty steps ahead. Out of earshot. Ollie leaned to his left, lowered his voice, and asked: “So what’s the deal with the Warden?”
Dozer’s eyes darted to the guard’s back. “What do you mean?”
“He runs the place, right? How’d that happen?”
His cellmate answered quietly, “All’s I know is, they say he was a prisoner once. There was some kind of a risin’ up. Riots, and stuff. Like a…” He paused, searching for the word.
“A mutiny?” Ollie supplied.
“Yeah. He started a mutiny, like on a ship, and he killed the guy in charge. Then he became the guy in charge. End of story.”
“A long time ago?”
Dozer shrugged. “Before my time.”
Ollie digested this information as they turned left. The red-suited guard remained well in the distance. “And what’s with the kids? In the circle?”
Dozer glanced over his shoulder before answering. “Hollowskin juice, they call it.”
Ollie’s eyes widened.
“He keeps the kids hopped up on the stuff.” Dozer’s voice was so low Ollie had to strain to hear it. “It turns them into weapons. To protect him. Word is, he thinks someone else is gonna do the same thing that he did. Try to take over, I mean. So, he keeps them around him all the time. Anybody comes close, and it’s—” He sliced his neck with a finger.
“But…whose kids are they?”
Dozer shrugged. “Don’t know. His, maybe.”
Ollie shuddered. He thought of several possibilities, none of them good. He had seen female inmates at Herrick’s End, of course. Maybe—
“Let’s go,” the guard barked from up ahead. “Move it.”
Ollie was glad for the interruption. He didn’t want to think about the children anymore. He didn’t want to imagine where they had come from, or what their futures held.
Ahead of them, the carved-out path widened and branched into a fork. As they followed to the left, he twisted his neck and peered down to the right. The road not taken. That hallway was unusually dark, with no torches whatsoever. After twenty feet or so, it vanished into pure blackness. A heavy, wrought-iron gate blocked the entrance, reminding Ollie of the menacing fence at the Granary Burying Ground, back in what he now thought of as the Brickside. He felt, suddenly, like he was walking along a demented, backwards version of the Freedom Trail, gawking at the sites like tourist.
“What’s down there?” he whispered, pointing into the dark space beyond the gate.
Dozer gave it a quick glance. “Off-limits.”
That much, Ollie could see. “Why?”
“That’s Solitary. Nowhere you want to be, trust me. Top-level inmates,” he added, giving the last words an ominous emphasis.
Ollie stared at him. The answer struck him as absurd. “What do you mean, top-level? This whole damn place is top-level!”
“You’d be surprised,” Dozer said, hoisting the bag onto his shoulder. “In this place, there’s one crime worse than all the rest.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
Dozer stopped walking and turned to face him. “Pissing off the Warden,” he said. “Remember that, kid. Once you get on that man’s bad side, it don’t matter none if you’re a murderer or just a pickpocket.” He shook his head. “If you get lucky, he just kills you. But if you really dill his pickle…” Dozer’s gaze traveled back to the dark, nameless corridor. “Well, let’s just say I ain’t fixin’ to find out, and neither should you. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Now keep your head down and your mouth shut.”
“Right,” Ollie said. It was the same advice the purple-haired girl, Tera, had given him, back in the boat. Suddenly, he pictured them clearly: The girl with the toolbelt. The giant crow with the ridiculous name. The two of them were probably boating around the lake that very second, sharing a good laugh at his expense.
“You come up with a new name yet?” Dozer asked.
“What?”
“A new name. I told you, that one ain’t gonna fly in here.”
“Oh, right. No, I…didn’t.”
Dozer grunted. “I’ll come up with something,” he said.
I won’t be here long enough to need a new name, Ollie wanted to say, but found the words stuck in his throat.
They stayed quiet after that, struggling with the armfuls of supplies as they traveled. The walk seemed endless: up and down stairs, around corners, through narrow and broad passageways. At one point during the journey, they stepped aside to let a group of five pass: two red-suited guards in the front, two in the back, and, in the middle, an enormous man that Ollie recognized as The Mallet. The Knockdown fighter was walking with a shuffled gait, his wrists and ankles shackled.
“Move aside!” one of the guards shouted unnecessarily, as Ollie and Dozer were already flattened against the wall.
The guards were leading The Mallet into a nearby room; it was well-lit and over-stuffed with boxes, paper bags, and rolls of something that looked like thick, colored tape.
“That there’s medical,” Dozer murmured.
Ollie nodded, trying to not to stare. It was so rare for him to come across someone taller and bigger than he was. So strange. But this man was truly a giant. He wore strapped sandals, short-shorts, and a stretched white tank, none of which even began to cover his girth. The hard, muscled flesh bulged and popped, as though his entire body had been created by a balloon-twisting clown. His skin had the tawny glow of a Pacific Islander.
For one fleeting, brave second, Ollie caught The Mallet’s eye. The two men stared at each other in the dark, crowded hallway. And then, just as abruptly, the connection was severed. The Mallet’s guards led him into the medical room, and Ollie and Dozer’s guard led them back into the tunnels.
As he left, Ollie turned for one last look. He watched the giant man hunch and struggle to fit through the tiny doorway, and then, moments later, disappear.
The Infirmary. Another stop on the Unfreedom Trail, Ollie thought. Please don’t forget to tip your driver. He furrowed his brow. His brief encounter with The Mallet had left him feeling heavier, somehow, as though he had arrived empty-handed and left with the weight of something he didn’t understand.
Finally, they rounded a bend and Ollie knew, without question, that this had to be the place. It was a dead end: A smallish cavern complete with its own island and, if he wasn’t mistaken, an actual moat. The island supported an octagonal-shaped building with no windows and a low roof.
As they got closer, Ollie could see that the water in the moat flowed in a strong, circular current. There was no way across. And on the island, standing like statues at perfectly measured intervals, he saw the children. They stared straight ahead, unseeing, all connected by a thread of lethal, golden fog.
Hollowskin juice, Ollie thought, and then felt himself shiver.
Ollie’s guard shared a hand signal with another on the island. A long plank began to rise out of the moat and Ollie realized, after a startled moment, that it was a bridge. The guard stepped onto the plank and began the crossing.
Ollie looked at Dozer questioningly. The lanky man adjusted his eyepatch and motioned with his arm: Go! So, Ollie scurried onto the thick plank of wet wood, toting the mop and bucket and bottles, trying not to fall into the churning water that lapped at his feet.
Thirty seconds later, all three of them were across.
“This way,” muttered the guard. Though he was using his usual gruff tone, Ollie could swear he heard a note of something else in the man’s voice. Was it fear?
Two of the zombified children blocked the door. At a quiet word from the on-site guards, the boy and girl slid to the side, bringing their gaseous entrails with them. The door opened, and Ollie’s guard shoved a nearby wheelbarrow at them and pointed at the doorway. He, apparently, wasn’t going in.
All rightee, then. Ollie threw his tools inside the wheelbarrow, cast an apprehensive glance at Dozer, and stepped inside.
He didn’t know what he was expecting. Bubbling cauldrons, maybe? A howling pit of hideous beasts? What he saw, though, was…an office. A perfectly ordinary, executive-style office, complete with a wide desk, several chairs, a bookshelf, and even a small wastebasket. The furniture was rudimentary, but symmetrical. Clean lines. Wood and hammered metal.
IKEA for Dungeons, Ollie thought.
He also noticed the smell of cologne in the air, and the claustrophobically low ceiling. Primarily, though, he noticed the body. It lay in a crumpled pile on the floor, mangled and bloody and very, very dead.
The Warden, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice the body at all. Or the cleaning crew’s entrance. He had his feet propped up on his desk, smiling evenly at a short, plump man who sat facing him. The visitor was trembling. A river of blood from the body had traveled across the wood floor, almost reaching the terrified man’s feet.
For a moment, Ollie didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Then Dozer tugged on his sleeve. Silently, the two of them moved toward the body and began unloading their supplies.
The Warden ignored them. “Axel, was it?” he asked his visitor.
The plump man nodded. It was more of an involuntary tremor than an agreement.
“Welcome, Axel.” The Warden’s smile was ingratiating. “Tell me, do you also have some concerns about the comfort of your stay here at Herrick’s End?”
The man shook his head, hard. He seemed unable to speak.
“Are you quite sure?” the Warden asked, looking puzzled. “I was told you’ve been voicing some very strong opinions on the subject. Like your friend Rocco, here.” He nodded casually at the twisted body on the floor.
“N-n-no, sir,” the man managed. “No concerns.”
“Ah, well, that is very good to hear,” the Warden replied, leaning backwards in his chair and pressing his fingers together. He wore a bespoke gray suit and a red silk tie. “Very good. We want all of our guests to have a satisfactory experience. Don’t we, Rocco?” He looked down at the body, still smiling.
Ollie had been watching the chilling interaction from the corner of his eye. But when the Warden glanced in his direction, he turned his full attention back to the task at hand: lifting the feet—Rocco’s feet—while Dozer lifted the shoulders. Together, they placed the body in the wheelbarrow, folding it in half to make it fit. Then Ollie fell back onto his knees and began sopping up the puddle left behind.
“Can I trust, Axel, that you will continue to have no concerns?”
Axel nodded again; a rapid, insistent bob. His curly hair bounced with the motion.
“Because I would hate to learn, sometime in the future, that you have been expressing displeasure about any aspect of our fine establishment.”
“No, sir.”
“If that happens, we will have to have this conversation again. And I don’t want to have this conversation again. Do you, Axel?”
“N-no, sir.”
“Hmm. Rocco said the exact same thing, as I recall. And yet here we are.” The Warden heaved a deep, regretful sigh. “I’ll tell you what. I’m going to give you a unique opportunity to show me that you’re serious about your promise.”
Ollie lifted a blood-soaked towel and threw it into the wheelbarrow on top of the body. Dozer opened the liquid cleaner and poured it onto the still-stained wood floor. Together, they scrubbed in silence.
“When you sign this contract, you will demonstrate your commitment to me,” the Warden said, waving a piece of paper in the air. “The contract states that you are willing and happy to volunteer in our noble Knockdown competition. It’s quite an honor to be asked, Axel. Quite an honor. Are you up for the challenge?”
The pudgy man’s trembling grew stronger, like a chihuahua in a pet-store cage. “I-I’m not much of a fighter, Sir.”
“Ah, come now, my friend,” the Warden said, tapping a folder on the desk. “Your file says otherwise.”
“But that was… that’s…”
“True, you only fought people who were smaller and weaker than yourself,” the Warden interrupted. “Children, was it?” He opened the folder and pretended to read. “Ah, yes, children. And I suppose you weren’t fighting them so much as…” His voice trailed away as he tossed the folder back onto the desk. “No matter. You’re here now, and you have a choice to make. So what will it be, my friend?”
The Warden grinned as he waited. He was slick, clean, and trim—almost beautiful. His skin was flawless in the torchlight. His teeth were large and bright. He had the kind of face that got the girl, and the promotion, and pretty much whatever else he wanted. Back in Ollie’s world, he might have been a sleazy politician. Or an ambulance-chasing lawyer. Or a model, grinning down from a billboard along I-93, selling watches or donuts or car insurance. The specifics didn’t really matter. The suits changed, but the vermin underneath stayed the same.
Axel signed the paper.
“Wonderful,” the Warden purred. “I think we shall call you…The Axe Man.”
Ollie and Dozer had finished their clean-up. Ollie stood, reached for the handles of the wheelbarrow, and pushed it toward the door. The body was heavy, but Ollie, of course, was heavier. The Warden had not acknowledged their coming or their going; they were invisible to him. Ghosts in the background. The Help.
Ollie could smell the victim’s congealing blood, metallic and sweet. He ignored the stench and kept his head down. He didn’t have a choice. No one had choices here: not Ollie, not Axel the Axe Man, and certainly not the poor guy folded inside the wheelbarrow like a pie crust. No one, that is, except the Warden. The one wearing the smirk. The one with all the authority and control, deserved or not, earned or not, making everyone else dance to his demented tune.
Ollie knew that song. He had danced that dance. And as he stole one last look at the smug and satisfied man behind the desk, he wondered: Why did power always seem to find the ones who deserved it the least? In that way, he knew, this mystifying, magical, upside-down world was not so different from the one above it.
* * *
Once they disposed of the body—unceremoniously, down a dusty chute—Ollie and Dozer moved on to their other thankless tasks of the day. First kitchen, then laundry, then cell maintenance on floors nine-through-thirty.
These were known in-house as the “wife-beater floors.” If Ollie was lucky, the inmates were out for daily exercise, torture sessions, or mealtime when he arrived. If not, he had to sidestep temperamentally challenged men and women of varying sizes while trying to clean their detritus and empty their piss buckets. In the previous days, he had only gotten as far as Floor Twelve. Today, they started him at Seventeen. By the time he got to Twenty, Ollie felt like a beaten-down gorilla, hunched and dragging his knuckles on the ground.
Cell 20C: Three men, all angry.
Cell 20D: Two men, one sleeping. The other stared out the barred window, singing in a language that might have been Chinese.
Cell 20E: Blessedly empty.
Cell 20F: Two women, hissing. One spitting.
The next cell, 20G, held only one man, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall.
Ollie stood in the doorway and did his usual risk-analysis scan before entering. Nothing hanging from the ceiling. No one hiding in a corner with a maniacal grin, coiled up and ready to pounce. No sharp objects aimed in his direction. Check, check, and check. It was just the one guy on the ground. Sitting perfectly still.
Too still?
Ollie’s gaze fell again on the seated prisoner. Goosebumps tickled his arms. Even in a place like this, where everything felt wrong, all of the time, something here felt…even more wrong than usual. What was it about that man? That inert, unfamiliar but somehow familiar man? Why did just the sight of him make Ollie feel like he was about to swallow a scream? He tilted his head to the side, taking a few more steps into the cell. Then his chest tightened suddenly, inexplicably, as a flood of memories crackled his mind with kaleidoscopic confusion.
Spaghetti, splattered against the wall.
Crowded subway car on the Green Line, holding a big hand. Looking up at a crush of adults.
Acqua di Gio. Cigars. Stale beer.
The wash bucket slipped from his hands, hit the ground, and toppled. Sudsy, brown water pooled around the soles of Ollie’s shoes. He stepped forward, then forward again, leaving wet footprints as he walked. His breath returned to him in short, pained gasps.
More memories flashed.
Electric guitar and drums, thumping the stereo. Making the ice jump in his glass.
His mother, leading him inside a closet. Pressing a finger to her lips. Closing the door.
Muffled thumps.
Sobbing, shouting. More thumps. Afraid to leave the closet. Afraid to stay.
Ollie fell to his knees, staring into the prisoner’s face.
The man had a prominent nose, bent from injury. A cauliflower ear on one side. Squinty, blank eyes. Pale skin pockmarked with imperfections. His lips, though limp, seemed curled into a perpetual scowl. Drool dribbled from his mouth.
Ollie stared and stared until his eyeballs felt dry from the effort. His fingers had gone cold. The man was stooped and frail. He was older. Almost unrecognizable.
Almost.
When Ollie finally spoke the word, it came out in an incredulous whisper: “Papa?”
His father did not respond.
Ollie lay his hands flat on the floor as the room spun around him. This wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t possible.
“Papa?” he said again, his voice rising. “Wake up!”
He shook his father’s shoulders. The man’s head bobbled like a doll. His hands were curled into fists, knuckled by arthritis. If he heard Ollie, or recognized him, he gave no sign.
“It’s me! It’s Ollie!”
But he could see already—it was no use. His father’s eyes, faded and pale blue, had turned in his direction, but saw nothing. Alzheimer’s? Delirium? Mental break?
Ollie shook him. Slapped him. “Wake up, you son of a bitch! Wake up!”
“Hey!” barked a voice from the doorway.
Ollie looked up, startled. He was holding his father’s jumpsuit by the collar.
“Step back from the prisoner,” the guard ordered.
“But he’s…he’s my…” Ollie stammered. Turmoil clouded his vision.
“Step back,” the guard repeated. This time, it sounded more like a threat. Another red-suited man appeared, then another.
Shaking, he dropped his father’s collar and stumbled backward. He peered deep into the old man’s eyes, searching for any sign of life, of recognition, of…anything. All he saw was cold, clear blue.
“Get him down to Five,” the guard growled, and Ollie felt a rough yank on his arms. There was no time for goodbyes, or good riddances, as they dragged him from the room.
Ollie half-walked, half-stumbled down 15 flights of winding stairs. With each turn, he could feel his confusion transforming into sickening clarity. And by the time he reached his own cell, shoved inside by two sets of meaty hands, Ollie’s newfound comprehension had already morphed into something else. Something that felt an awful lot like white-hot, boiling rage.