BEYOND THE WALLS
Image licensed through Adobe Stock. Edited.
I know I am better than the rats. The rats have no imagination. When they die, it doesn’t matter. Sometimes the mothers get confused and eat their babies. The rats are morons. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we don’t eat each other from time to time, but at least we know why.
*
I think the Bald Man is late today. At some point he’ll walk through those doors, ignoring me at first, futzing with the instruments, checking on the others.
Hating him has become my primary pastime, yet I await his arrival as though he were someone dear to me. I feel disappointment when his footsteps continue past the door, carrying him to some other room.
*
If the Bald Man were the only thing preventing my escape, I’d have killed him long ago. It wouldn’t be difficult. First, I would break his jaw so he couldn’t bite, then I’d make his hands useless by chewing through the tendons in his wrists, then I’d tear his genitals out by the root. End of story.
*
His footsteps are advancing along the hallway. I hear the sound of the heavy door in my mind, then I hear the real sound. He walks slowly around the perimeter of the room, looking into the cages, scribbling, nodding at the others, frowning at the rats. I never take my eyes off him. Now he is approaching my cage, looking a little annoyed. He sticks a silver instrument through the wire mesh to push the gadget toward me. I do not respond. He makes the gadget light up somehow. I remain unimpressed. He shakes his head and scribbles some more.
*
The cage is not the problem either. Many of us, myself included, know how to let ourselves out of the cages. The problem lies in the inexplicable source of the Bald Man’s power. For none of us can fathom how he and his comrades were able to conquer us. It would be foolish to attack an enemy who has proven so indomitable without first understanding the nature of his strength.
Though I haven’t reached any definitive conclusions, I suspect the distinction between the Bald Man and ourselves has to do with the strange instruments he wields. After all, without these instruments he never would have been able to force us into the cages. It’s clear that he and his kind are specialists in trickery, yet his motivations remain mysterious. Above all, one question preys on my mind:
When is he going to eat us?
*
My comrades are a sorry lot. More and more, I find myself appalled by their foolhardy reactions to our plight. Walter and Irma, for instance, never seem to quit playing with the gadgets. They seem convinced that once they have solved the riddle of these things, they’ll be free. Maybe they believe the Bald Man seeks to initiate us into the mysteries of his power. Albert and Schulz engage with the gadgets only fleetingly, bellowing in frustration after a few minutes, then staring at their feet in anguish. I myself remain skeptical. I learned long ago to trust nothing that comes through the door of the cage. Even the food is suspect, but there’s not a whole lot I can do about that.
*
Today they took Albert away. For a while, all that remained in his cage was his gadget, but then someone came and removed that too. Nobody seems to know where Albert has been taken or whether he will be returned. Maybe they’re finally going to start eating us. It would be of some relief to know that our ordeal was at least governed by logic.
*
Years ago, I was in another room. It wasn’t appreciably different from this one, nor was my captor much different from the Bald Man. A bit rounder. On my first day in this room, the Round Man reached into my cage and pierced the skin of my arm with a long, narrow instrument. Just as I began to cope with the pain in my arm, I tasted something strange. I then became aware of a sensation radiating from within me. For a moment, I was unable to register anything outside myself. All I could do was track this strange new feeling. This became overwhelming, and I spent the rest of the day retching, curled up in the center of my cage.
The next day, the Round Man came again with the instrument. I cowered in the corner, remembering well my discomfort from the day before. He grabbed my arm by force and pierced the skin the way he had done previously. While there was some nausea, it was far less severe than it had been the first time. After a while, I ceased to fear the prick. I even started holding out my arm voluntarily. As soon as I heard footsteps in the hall, I would thrust my arm through the bars.
Then the Round Man stopped coming. Strangely, I did not return to my original condition, but instead entered a ghastly new phase of my life characterized by pacing, gagging, huddling in corners, shitting relentlessly. At the slightest sound, I would press myself against the edge of the cage with my arm sticking out as though I were trying to reach the far wall. But the Round Man never came.
Days later, I returned to my accustomed state of confusion and resentment. It was only at this point that the Round Man returned with the long instrument. I cowered in the corner as I had done on the second day of the treatment, expecting to be forced into a reprise of this terrible cycle. But this time the Round Man did not use force. Looking satisfied, he backed away from my cage and started scribbling.
*
Walter and Irma seem oblivious to Albert’s disappearance. All day long they manipulate their gadgets, pausing only to compare findings. Their hope is preposterous. However, I have to admit they may be onto something when it comes to the gadgets. I’m far from convinced that playing with them will lead to our freedom, but I do suspect that there is some relationship between the gadget and the power the Bald Man holds over us.
*
I can’t fathom what all the scribbling is about. They all do it: the Bald Man, the Round Man, all of them. Whether or not they have decided to torment us, they can always be counted on to stare woodenly and scribble. It’s as if they mean to bewitch us, only to fall under a spell themselves as they scratch the instrument upon the surface.
*
The situation has grown dire. Albert has been returned to his cage with his head wrapped in cloth. Although I’d like to believe they ate part of his head and are saving the rest of him for later, I fear their motives may be more sinister. Albert is behaving strangely. He is no longer given access to a gadget. He just sits there with his mouth agape, staring straight ahead, masturbating at intervals.
*
Once, in a different room, I met a fellow who had lived beyond the walls. He had made his living by stealing things from people like the Bald Man and negotiating a ransom for their return. When I asked him which item had yielded the highest ransom, he described a strange object to me that I couldn’t make sense of at the time. However, now that I am familiar with the gadget, I can’t help but notice the similarity between it and the curious article the fellow had described.
I’m sure this information could be turned to my advantage, but how?
*
We have begun to confer with one another at night, speculating about the nature of Albert’s condition and what it might mean for the rest of us. Schulz has appointed himself leader. So far, nobody has challenged him. Schulz reads our apathy and cowardice as proof of his exceptional nature, and his boldness increases. It’s an unfortunate cycle. I’m in no position to criticize my fellows, though, since I myself have done nothing to curb Schulz’s runaway ego.
I am forced to admit that some of Schulz’s ideas are compelling. It seems clear that the Bald Man aims to reduce us all to Albert’s state, at which point resistance will become impossible. Schulz argues that we must act quickly. He understands also that, while clandestine escape would be ideal, it is not likely. Our only chance, he says, lies in killing. This means, of course, that some of us will be killed as well.
Schulz’s frenzied speeches have convinced the others that our deaths no longer matter so long as they contribute to the liberation of at least one survivor. I can’t help but think that this reduces us to the status of the rats, whose deaths most assuredly do not matter.
*
I believe the gadgets have made us stupider. Even I, having had minimal contact with the device, have noticed its enfeebling influence. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly how the gadgets have changed us. I’d say the most striking difference is our inability to communicate. Organizing ourselves used to be effortless, whereas now I can sense each of us thinking about the gadgets when we should be focused on our escape. In some ways I understand the insidious nature of the device better than anybody. I am the only one who appreciates the tremendous effort involved in resisting the allure of its spellbinding colors and sounds.
*
Our escape is set for tomorrow night. The only ones who seem wary of the whole endeavor are Walter and Irma, who believe they are on the cusp of uncovering the secret of the gadgets. At one point they even asked Schulz if they could stay behind. Naturally, he refused their request, but conceded that they could bring the gadgets with them, if they liked.
On this last night before the escape, I find myself tempted to mercy kill my sleeping comrades by crushing their skulls with one of the heavier objects the Bald Man leaves lying around. I even go so far as to step out of my cage and approach the far table. Then I hear Albert groaning and my resolve crumbles. I have no right to interfere in their destinies.
*
Schulz has charged me with carrying Albert on my back. This duty is even more onerous than it sounds. Something about Albert’s idiocy makes him heavier than normal, and he expels urine and feces without warning. Schulz understands that hoisting Albert will make it impossible for me to fight. I am encouraged to defend myself as best I can, but my prime directive is to get Albert to safety. I am to be flanked by Schulz at the front and Walter and Irma at the rear.
There is some talk of liberating the rats as a matter of principle, but we decide against it. The rats would have no idea what to do with their freedom.
*
Sometimes I dream about my childhood outside the walls. It’s always a little frustrating because I can never recall any images or sounds, only sensations. I remember clinging to my mother’s back as she bounded along a gnarled path. To say that there is great comfort in this dream would be accurate, but it would discount the acute fear simmering underneath. However, due to an overwhelming sense of faith and trust, this fear remains dormant. This is the crucial difference between life inside and outside the walls.
Here, there is no trust.
*
We make it as far as the hallway before the Bald Man appears from a distant door. Schulz wastes no time. He charges down the hallway and pounces. Within seconds he is sitting athwart the Bald Man’s chest, his fingers wrapped around the bottom row of teeth as his other hand rains steady, focused blows upon the jawbone. It is marvelous to behold. I am made aware that the jawbone has broken when the Bald Man’s childish shrieks become drowned, glottal sobs. Schulz is no slouch. He is already working the right wrist with his teeth, unfazed by the wild blows he receives from the Bald Man’s other hand. The four of us advance toward the carnage. Schulz breaks the right arm over his knee for good measure, and the jagged bone ends spew jets of black blood in two opposing arcs. The left arm is barely moving now but Schulz snaps it anyway, perhaps emboldened by our cheering. For we have not taken the opportunity to flee but have instead encircled the Bald Man. I am so invested in the spectacle that I lower Albert to the ground so that we can both revel more completely. Though the Bald Man is unconscious now, Schulz reaches for the groin anyway, finding the soft meat buried there beneath the beige material he covers himself with. Schulz is struggling to tear the dangling flesh from the body on account of the strong fabric. Finally, it comes loose, fabric and all. Schulz holds his spoils over our heads and we rejoice in the warm rain of fluid and gobbets.
We are all looking at one another now, blood-drunk and gore-dappled, our chests heaving. For a moment, our eyes become veiled with shame at the idea that we were so easily distracted from our mission, all except Albert, who has begun to masturbate. It is at this vulnerable moment that three unfamiliar men emerge from a door at the far end of the hall. They are all carrying instruments, one of which makes a high-pitched droning noise. Walter and Irma begin to fiddle desperately with their gadgets, occasionally looking up at the men in supplication. Schulz begins to look askance at the two of them. Walter and Irma share a glance as if each one suspects the other, then they look back at Schulz imploringly. Schulz accuses them of treachery. He seems to be on the point of attacking them when the three men begin running toward us.
“Save Albert!” Schulz shouts. Then he beckons to Walter and Irma, and the three charge their respective adversaries. Schulz attacks the one with the droning instrument and is bleeding from his face almost instantly. He fights admirably for a few moments, managing to tear off one of the man’s ears, but before long his face has become a structureless mess and he falls to the floor in a wet heap. Meanwhile, Irma is being bludgeoned repeatedly with a large wooden club. Walter is going for his opponent’s eyes as the latter plugs away at his torso with a small shiny instrument. I cannot see the damage being done to Walter’s body, only the blood that pools at the feet of his assailant.
I hoist Albert onto my back and he chuckles as if being tickled. I run toward the back doors, expecting them to be fastened, but they are not. In an instant, we are actually outside the building, breathing in the smells of the world. I haven’t been outside since I was a child. I am overwhelmed by a flood of indistinct, imageless memory. Then I become seized by panic. I look over both shoulders expecting to encounter an even larger number of men with even more fearsome instruments, but there is nobody there. I hoist Albert high on my shoulders and head for a dense layer of trees that looms in the distance.
*
For the last three days, we’ve been living in the middle of a forest whose magnitude I’ll probably never learn. The tree we are living in is no better or worse than the hundreds that surround it. It is simply the one I collapsed under after carrying Albert as far as I could manage. So far, there is no evidence to suggest that we are being pursued.
I’m surprised by how simple it is to live without the assistance of the Bald Man. For some reason, I was under the impression that freedom would require greater sacrifice than this. The most unsettling thing about this forest is its wildlife. None of the creatures here are like us. On the other hand, none are like the Bald Man either. This is the most reassuring thing. Our fates are no longer inscrutable.
*
I often wonder why Schulz thought that Walter and Irma had betrayed him. Wouldn’t the men have been more prepared to subdue us if they had been given notice? It seemed to me that they entered the hallway in response to the Bald Man’s screams, and even then, belatedly. Perhaps Schulz was just annoyed, as I had been, by their deluded hopes and incessant fiddling.
*
The disadvantages of living outside the walls have begun to make themselves apparent. Though at first the landscape bore some resemblance to my childhood memories, I am ultimately a stranger here. The nights have grown very cold and food is becoming scarce. All the same, I have no regrets about our escape. Behind the walls, suffering was certain. Make no mistake, danger abounds in this place as well, but the assailants here are killers, plain and simple. They’re not interested in toying with us. Plus, there’s always the chance that we might defeat them. This prospect, all but absent in my previous habitation, inspires hope, however foolish.
*
Sometimes I envy Albert. He sits beneath our tree all day, grinning, accepting with gratitude what fruits I am able to forage. He has even begun to recognize elements of the outside world. This change could be due to the time we’ve spent outside the walls. Although, more likely, it has to do with the distance we’ve placed between ourselves and the gadgets. Albert is particularly fond of birds. I myself have never seen one until recently, though I had certainly heard of them. He sits in the dirt at the base of our tree with his bandaged head tilted backward, scanning the patches of sky above the uppermost branches, groaning.
*
I don’t know what will become of Albert and me. In all likelihood, I will scrabble away in this forest until I freeze or am eaten by something. I won’t let this happen to Albert, though. When the time comes, I’ll eat him myself.
Andrew Hubbell is a fiction writer based in Los Angeles. His work has appeared in Alta Journal.