Mrs. Reed’s comments trail me back to Mr. Dowling’s personal quarters and plague me. I hadn’t really thought about the mutants and why they threw in their lot with the clown. I assumed they were all bad to the bone, that in their twisted wretchedness they’d sought him out. Or maybe they were good people whose minds had been corrupted, unwilling servants who’d been kidnapped and modified. But Mrs. Reed’s reasons for lending her support to Mr. Dowling have made me reevaluate things.
A few days later Kinslow and a couple of his mutant colleagues drop in on me as I’m exercising, trying to pass the time while knocking my body back into shape. I didn’t think I’d ever bounce back to anything like normal when I first arrived here after my mauling at the hands of Dan-Dan, but daily soakings in the vat of blood and brains have worked wonders. I’m not up to gladiatorial standards, and maybe never again will be, but I’m getting stronger every day, almost at the same sort of levels as before I began training with the Angels.
“Looking good,” Kinslow says, and it’s hard to tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.
“Good enough to take you in a fair fight,” I grunt, finishing my push-ups before getting to my feet.
“You probably could,” he says sourly. “That’s why I prefer to fight dirty. Now, if you’re done working out…”
“Where are we going?” I ask as we head up the stairs. “To see the babies?”
“No,” he says, surprising me. “Mr. Dowling’s noted your restlessness. He wants to show you some things, to get you more involved in our affairs. He meant to take you himself, but he’s been called away.”
We weave our way through the maze of rooms, and I’m pleased to note that I’m moving much more fluidly than when I first toured the chambers. I spot some mutants in the middle of a kickboxing contest. I’d like to stay and watch, maybe even take part to test myself, but Kinslow hustles me forward.
I try to map our route as we proceed. I’ve been doing this every time I’m led out of Mr. Dowling’s personal quarters, building up an overview of the complex, looking for possible exit points or places where I could hide. Of course the babies would be able to track me down mentally if I hid, which is a major fly in the ointment, but that doesn’t stop me from toying with ideas of escape.
Kinslow takes me to an area of the den that I didn’t know existed. There are five linked but otherwise isolated rooms. A sign over the door–painted in blood naturally–informs me that I’m about to enter Mr. Dowling’s Zoo.
“It’s not a real zoo, is it?” I ask.
“Sure it is,” Kinslow says. “There are no lions, elephants or anything like that, but plenty of interesting exhibits all the same.”
The interesting exhibits are insects, spiders, butterflies, reptiles and the like, dozens of different species stored in a variety of tanks and cages, each room cluttered with them. This is where Mr. Dowling stores the creatures that he places in his mouth when he wants to make an impression.
“He doesn’t keep an animal in his mouth all the time, does he?” I ask Kinslow as we wander from one glass cage to another.
“Not when he’s at home,” Kinslow says, “but he usually pops something in whenever he’s heading up to the streets.”
“Why?” I ask. “What are they for?”