The Tower Page 5

  The inmates went crazy, shrieking as the body plummeted past them. From Level Two, Tommy and Safran could make out the outline of the body below them, and they screamed with delight.

  “Hackett, you fucking mook! How the fuck you like it down here? Always a tough guy. Well, look what happens to tough guys. Broken fuckin’ neck in the sewer of a prison. By choice too. Could’ve just stayed on the outside, been a family man. Station wagon with wood paneling, picnics with pasta salad and marinated chicken.” Tommy shook his head.

  “Stupid. Fuck you quiet, Tommy.” Safran glared across the Hole at Tommy through the tangle of black hair hanging over his eyes. “Stupid food all you say. All you say about. Food.”

  9

  ALLANDER stood on top of the parapet of the Tower, balanced on one foot. A surge of energy flowed through his taut muscles and he rolled his head back, letting his hair catch in the wind.

  Seeing the Tower from above for the first time, Allander felt its power entering his body through his feet and legs, rising through his groin and stomach into his rib cage. Now, standing on top of man’s greatest effort at order and hierarchy, he felt a sense of domination.

  The Tower was a prison, but to him it was also a house of worship, a place to celebrate man in divine trespass. It was a building of history, for all its inhabitants were caged by and for their pasts. They spoke only of memories, skewed interpretations whispered by their minds.

  Above all else, Allander realized, the Tower was wildly and beautifully masculine. They had built it to restrain the human spirit, to punish those who danced to a different beat, to still the music that came to them in the dead of night. They never appreciated the fact that Allander had never shut his eyes to the secrets of the human soul. He had listened to the quiet babbling of creeks running deep through the crags of his mind. He knew that he was something grander, more majestic, than their prison built of rock and steel. He was a Tower of flesh and blood, rising above the emotional quagmire through which other men limped, thoughtless and impotent.

  He inhaled deeply, pulling at once the dank air of the Hole and the fresh ocean breeze into his lungs, feeling them merge, absorbing them into his body as if to incorporate some part of the Tower, to integrate some piece of this time and place.

  The top of the sun was still visible above the line of the horizon, though it was a blurry glow. As Allander scanned the sea for approaching boats, a flash of movement in the hills behind Maingate caught his eye. A person, no larger than a dot, was plummeting from one of the cliffs, like a folded bird. Then, a small streak of black threaded out above the figure and exploded in a point of color that grew like a blot from a fountain pen. Allander realized that he was witnessing a parachute jump rather than a suicide. He found the sight captivating; it was like watching a painting unfold on the darkening canvas of the sky. He watched long after the jumper had disappeared into the trees below before turning his attention back to the Tower.

  He crossed to the small guard station and foraged through its drawers until he found the first-aid box. He threw bottles over his shoulder and they shattered on the ground behind him. When he came to the procaine hydrochloride vial, he stopped.

  The Maingate physician had insisted it be present in case emergency oral surgery were ever necessary for the guards; in addition to being a contained security unit, the Tower had to be a self-sufficient medical station.

  Allander withdrew a needle from the small packet and fit it gently into a plastic syringe. He punched the needle through the rubber top of the vial and withdrew some of the liquid, then cleared the air from the syringe. A few drops squirted through, onto the floor.

  Taking a deep breath, Allander inserted the needle into the tip of the ring finger on his left hand. He waited for the numbness to spread and settle. After a few minutes, he removed a scalpel from its sterile package and dipped it in the container of alcohol. Then he made a neat incision, cutting diagonally through his fingerprint.

  Since the anesthetic had not fully taken effect, he felt a painful tingling in the pad of his finger, but feeling suddenly rushed for time, he continued. Using tweezers, he pried underneath the skin, grimacing as he saw his flesh rise along the straight line of the cut. The blood came and washed over the end of the tweezers until it obscured his view.

  Once, he felt the tweezers close on something hard and he pulled gently, but when the tweezers emerged from the bloody gash, they held only fleshy material that looked like gristle. Allander hadn’t anticipated that numbing the finger would have made it difficult for him to distinguish the location sensor from his own senseless tissue.

  Beginning to lose patience, he pressed the tweezers in until they hit the bone. He applied too much pressure and they slid around the side of his finger next to his nail, pulling the flesh around and stretching the cut open. He heard a soft, metallic clink as the tweezers struck something distinctly alien, and he bit his lip in a mixture of pain and delight. Finally, working the tweezers around the metal, he withdrew the sensor, which was the size of a large pea. The flesh around the cut strained and whitened at the edges as he pulled the bloody orb through.

  After pressing gauze to his wound, Allander wrapped it with medical tape, bandaging it thoroughly. Then he used the tape to affix the location sensor to the side of the Hole. It was close enough to its assigned location that the difference in position would not be detected from the mainland.

  He began to move at a furious pace, sprinting back to the guard station. He opened the control box, ignoring the flashing lights and the warning stickers. Finding the knob labeled PUMPS, he turned it to DISENGAGE, then broke it off, flinging it out of the shed. It skidded across the top of the Tower and into the Hole. He found a pencil and jammed it in the hole where the knob had been, breaking it and lodging a small piece inside. That would be enough to hold them off until it was too late.

  His finger was starting to hurt. Blood leaked through the gauze and tape, but he ignored it—he was almost done now. He turned back to the controls, finding the section labeled VENTS. As the pounding waves rose against the Tower’s side, he pulled the levers, one by one. Twelve … Eleven … Ten … Nine. Level Nine was the lowest floor to have vents, but it was almost always underwater, so its vents had never been used. They jammed halfway open.

  A torrent of water blasted down the Hole, dousing the inmates through their cages. It struck the bottom and roared upward, snarling and swirling about the prisoners. They screamed in terror, many of them running in circles, regarding their walls and ceilings with wild eyes.

  Safran was knocked across his unit with the first blast of water. His head was smashed against the bed, caving in at the temple like a deflated basketball.

  Tommy froze as the water rose under his feet, driving him up. His mouth opened in a silent scream as he rode the massive swell, his face striking the steel bars of his ceiling.

  Allander rushed to the gaping mouth of the Hole and cried down: “WELCOME HOME, MY LITTLE ONES! WELCOME HOME!” What he said, however, was lost to the inmates, drowned out by the roar of the water and their own screams. Allander scampered away from the edge of the Hole.

  On Level Three, Mills roared in terror as he watched the river of water flow past his unit. He looked down at his feet and saw the seething mass of liquid rising toward him through the bars of the floor. It deluged Level Two now, and it would be only another few seconds before it reached him.

  He seized the unit wall fiercely with both hands, his hairy fingers squeezing the bars. The water flew up, striking his bottom and groin, and he bellowed in pain. He did not release his grip, even as the water yanked his body from the ground. The void over his head filled, and he slowly pulled himself back down to a standing position beneath the ocean’s roar. He finally opened his mouth, forced to inhale, and a peace spread through his body as his lungs drew the water inward.

  Cyprus moaned and paced madly about his unit, feeling the walls and jumping to grab the ceiling bars and hold his body up off the ground.
>
  Above him, Spade laughed and stepped on his hands. “He got us, Aryan boy. He got us good,” he called down tauntingly.

  Cyprus squealed in pain and fear and collapsed to the floor. The water appeared to be moving more slowly now. It rose from Level Eight and when Cyprus’s feet got wet, he screamed as if they’d been touched by acid. He jumped onto his bed.

  “Any chance?” he cried, his breath catching in his chest. “Any chance it’ll stop, that it’ll level off? Come on, Spade, tell me. Tell me now. Oh, Jesus God.”

  The water reached his bed and continued to rise, claiming his calves, then his thighs. Again he leapt up and grabbed the ceiling bars. And again, Spade placed one of his size-fourteen feet over both hands. Cyprus whimpered like a puppy.

  “None at all, white boy. None at all. Maybe by the time it hits Level Ten, or maybe not. But you got no hope. No hope at all for Level Nine.” He smiled. “And I’ll be right here watching you go.”

  He lifted his foot from Cyprus’s hand, but this time Cyprus did not fall away. The water buoyed him until he was pressed against the ceiling. Spade sat clumsily on the floor, his legs spread so he could see Cyprus’s face between them, and he watched as the water slowly covered Cyprus’s frantic eyes. His blond hair flowed gracefully in the water, making him look like a distorted mermaid. He struggled against the bars, and as Spade’s pants began to soak up water, Cyprus’s breath left him in a bubbled cough. Sucking in painfully, he jerked about before drifting away from the ceiling.

  Spade stood up and pulled off his shirt, throwing it into the corner. He sloshed over to his bed and sat, resting his chin on his fist, his black body sculpted and organic against the sterile steel bars. The water had slowed, but each wave pushed another gasp through the tenth-level vents into the Tower.

  He looked at his hands. Opening and closing them, he flexed them before his face, his massive fists like sledgehammers. He watched until liquid flowed over them and then he stood to face the water. It rose over his bulging pectorals, then over his deltoids and trapezoids. Little bubbles clung to him as he felt his feet leave the ground. He welcomed the cold water flowing over his body. It had been a long drought.

  He rose, treading water though barely moving, until his head struck the ceiling and stopped his ascent. “Allander, my child,” he whispered, his voice a deep rumble. “Allander, my child.” Water rushed over the smile that had formed on his lips, and a small funnel of air pushed into the water as he breathed from his nose. His glassy eyes did not blink as they went under.

  By then, Allander was already off in the transport speedboat that had been loosely moored to the side of the Tower. As the water rose to Level Eleven, he used a pair of wire cutters to make a hole in the fence large enough to guide the speedboat through.

  Breaking from the reflection of the Tower that rippled in the day’s last light, Allander steered into open water. He buzzed toward the bleak glow at the horizon, nibbling from a cup of yogurt. The high tide rose to its peak, and sat defiantly around and throughout the Tower.

  10

  ALLANDER stood in the rocking speedboat about a mile offshore and nosed it around until the bow faced open water. He wedged an iron rod into place between the floor and the wheel, turned the motor over, and started the boat again. It was getting low on gas. He tried to ease the throttle a bit higher, but the boat jerked forward and he fell over the side, banging his shoulder as it sped off.

  The cold choked the air out of him and for a moment he thought he might sink. But then he felt his arms fight through the numbness, and he began to tread water. He floated for a minute holding his shoulder, moving with the waves. At least I disposed of the boat, he thought as he started the long swim to shore.

  The throbbing in his shoulder intensified with every stroke and Allander realized he had underestimated his injury. He began to thrash, fighting with the rise of the waves to pull his body nearer to land.

  The water splashed over his face, forcing itself into his eyes and nose and stinging horribly. His throat became raw from taking in water in little gulps. The cut on his finger throbbed as the saltwater entered the wound. The small lights of houses in the hilltops above the beach twinkled at him, as though jeering at him in his precarious situation.

  Be calm. Just calm yourself, he thought. He rolled his tired neck from side to side and inhaled deeply, clearing his mind.

  He kicked off his shoes when he’d first landed in the water, and now he stripped off his socks, his shirt, and even his thin prison pants. He tied one leg of his pants in a knot and shoved his socks and shirt into it before throwing the whole ball of cloth aside.

  Wearing only his underwear, Allander gave in to the rhythm of the ocean, letting his body flow with the swirling water, letting it seize his limbs and take him under its sway. He rose, barely moving his arms and legs, and twirled on the surface before dipping below again, his exhausted body washed about like a leaf riding a harsh autumn wind. But the ocean continued to press him upward. He drank the air greedily before the ocean moved him down, forcefully sweeping him to shore. He felt his limbs grow stiff with the cold and he hoped they’d keep moving.

  Finally, he noticed that the waves were breaking and he had to fight for breath as they crashed, spouting a white mist into the humid air. His torso actually broke through the surface as he neared shore, pushed into the air by the force of a wave, and he saw the lights clearly before his body hit the water again. At last, he felt the sand beneath his feet, and the thick pebbles and grains surrounding his toes. He touched the ground with both knees and still the ocean pushed him forward, seething up his back and through his legs, propelling him to shore.

  Suddenly, his legs and waist were seized by a large, dark mass. A slimy substance wrapped itself around him and squeezed him tightly, tying up his limbs and sucking him back out to sea. Allander dug his fingers into the sand and pulled himself forward, screaming and thrashing.

  The mass slid from Allander’s waist and briefly held his knees before he kicked free. He turned on his hip to watch as it slid from view. It was a patch of dark green seaweed, glittering moistly in the moonlight.

  He pulled himself free of the water as it retreated to gather itself for another surge onto the beach. Scrambling on all fours and wearing only a ragged pair of underpants, Allander was delivered to shore at three minutes past midnight.

  The water climbed gently to where his body lay and barely touched his side, as if sniffing him curiously. Allander stirred, coughing deeply, and winced at the dull ache in his throat and head. His finger throbbed even more now. He drew himself up to his knees and peered around the beach, admiring its fine, open expanse, its irregular shape and sloppy curves. Overhead, the moon broke through the clouds. Throwing his head back, he shrieked, something between a sob and a cackle.

  He ran his hands through the water, petting it as it edged forward to meet him again. It rose through his spread fingers, climbing clingingly up his forearms, and he dug his hands shovel-like into the moist ground and clenched them loosely. The water drew the matter away to reveal two fists of small wriggling crabs, alive and free in every handful of sand.

  11

  THE first light of morning broke through the low clouds and cast a bluish glow over the beach. The storm had passed in the night, and the ground was damp with morning dew. A crab scuttled across the sand, back toward the water, its ragged claws leaving small trails in its wake.

  Allander turned his head and coughed, then rolled over and threw up. His vomit smelled clean and fresh, his stomach acid diluted with saltwater. The swelling on his shoulder had gone down during the few hours that he had been passed out. He had slept deeply, but his eyes were puffy and sore.

  At one point, from the depths of his stupor, Allander had thought he heard voices. Panic washed over him momentarily as he imagined cops or security guards dragging him from the beach. But then he realized that the noise came from a group of passing teenagers, and they dismissed him as a harmless bum.

 
Rolling to his forearms, Allander rose to his haunches, squinting even in the dim morning light. “‘Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, I am free at last,’” he mumbled. He laughed, a choke thick with irony.

  He pulled himself to his feet, but stood stooped, favoring his swollen shoulder. Facing the breeze with his bare chest, he wandered from the beach, looking much like a scarecrow that had freed itself from its post.

  He gazed up at the houses in the hills as he climbed the stairs that led from the beach to the residential neighborhood. Manicured bushes lined the sidewalks, but as the street wound higher up the hill, the neat shrubbery gave way to thicker underbrush. The houses sat farther back from the road behind larger gates. Their mailboxes were all that were open to the outside world, and even those were built into protective brick structures.

  Blending with the shadows, Allander made his way up the street. It was early in the morning and no one seemed to be up yet. He could probably have proceeded up the middle of the road, but he kept to the shadows out of habit. He glanced at the gates as he passed them, amused at the false sense of security they created for their owners.

  At the top of the hill, he stopped at a white stucco house that peeked out behind an elaborate fence. Reaching through the gate, Allander slipped the bar. He swung the gate slightly open and slid through, disappearing into the bushes at the side of the driveway.

  He ran his thumb gently over the bloody tape covering his finger. It was damp and the edges were frayed. Ocean water was cleansing, he reminded himself thankfully.

  Making his way slowly through the landscape, Allander flanked the house, occasionally peering between the bushes to scan the area. Although he knew nobody would be awake at this hour, he didn’t want to risk a bold approach.