Lights Out in the Reptile House (32 page)

BOOK: Lights Out in the Reptile House

4.08Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

Kehr came up close and asked him who were the people. When Karel didn't answer Kehr hit him so hard across the face that it changed the taste in his mouth. Then he went away and the two assistants unshackled Karel and carried him back to his cell.

He lay on the floor feeling his nausea as a kind of acidic chill. He had nothing to fall back on in his attempt to understand what had just happened. He was aware of flies, houseflies and smaller flies with greenish heads. They buzzed and helixed before him when he moved his leg.

He thought, Am I better now? He was always aware of his knee, the pain like metal within it. He came to with a strange man bending over him. The man said he was the doctor and sat him up and showed him his knee. There were petals of flesh curled back from the opening and the whole thing seemed to him like meat on a plate. The man touched a white sponge soaked in something yellow to the area and Karel's whole leg moved independently while he watched. The man held Karel's palm open and tumbled three orange aspirins into it, to get him, he suggested, over the rough patch. He suggested when he left that Karel shake off the past and look to the future.

They brought him back to the torture room while he was still half muddled and he struggled and cried and tried to hold on to parts of his cell door like someone searching a sandy ocean bottom in murky water. Kehr asked him who the people were and he wailed and jabbered and tried everything to keep it from happening again. They leaned him back against the rack with one of the assistants supporting him since he could no longer support himself, and he tried feebly to keep his hands together so they couldn't be shackled. The assistant patiently pulled them apart.

Kehr said, “Long ago we figured out, in laboratories like these, that certain things can be done to human beings without the sky falling in. Most people really don't know that everything's possible. You resist,” he said. “So you're back again. Who are the people?”

“I'll tell you, I'll tell you,” Karel said, but images and information all milled around in his head and he couldn't think of a name to give or invent.

Kehr had something metal on Karel's thigh and sawed into it and tore back whole sheets of muscle. It was as if his leg had been inverted into fire.

He came to dizzy and weak from the loss of blood. Behind his eyes ovals and whorls of light cascaded.
Somebody save me,
he thought.

“Why are you resisting?” Kehr said. “There's no one left. Do you think there's anyone left?” But Karel couldn't focus on the words, overwhelmed with a suffocating and implacable fear. He refused to think, tried in every way possible to preoccupy his mind: Eski, he thought, and the little dog passed untouched through the darkness.

“Do you recognize this?” Kehr asked, and he held up bloody clothing. Karel didn't.

They started to strip the skin from the soles of his feet. He had the sensation they were trying to separate the skin at the edge of the wound with a pair of pincers. He passed out and came to and slid down a huge slippery tube where he would disappear and it would all stop. When he revived he was fully horizontal on a pallet, still in the room. His feet were on fire and he was howling and whining and his legs galloped weakly in place to make it stop. Something was holding them down. Kehr was over him.

“Let me tell you what you're hoping for,” he said gently. “The good that saves the day, that turnaround moment when the point of light expands and drives away the darkness. If Karel was like Kehr, then why couldn't Kehr be like Karel?

“Let me tell you what will happen,” he said. His eyes were close to Karel's and Karel closed his own and tried to raise an arm, like a blind man groping to ward off a blow. “We're taking everything. No one is left for you. No one will be sorry. We're taking your life and your death. You're resisting, but I've taken away the world you're resisting for. Your martyrdom is impossible. With no witnesses there's no testimony. Who's going to record your gesture? Who's going to record hers?”

“I am,” Karel whispered. He was crying and wanted only to be put out of his agony. “I do.”

You should have been born in another time, Kehr was telling him, after it had been quiet. This was a chosen time and a chosen place. What chance did you have? Kehr stood and signaled to someone, and he felt himself being lifted up. So many never fully understood, Kehr was saying from somewhere behind him, the way that in places and times like this it was just a matter of history being let off the leash.

In his cell he lay across his mattress, too weak to move, shivering violently. He thought he could hear the faint scraping and tapping of mortar and trowels and imagined his cell expanding in all directions. His thigh and knee swayed and throbbed in steady waves and he could feel his blood purling out of him. He wrote his name and Leda's name with his finger on the floor. At times he thought to himself,
Now it's time to get ready, now's the time they'll come for me,
or
I'm not ready, I'm ashamed, I'm alone, I'm guilty,
but at other times he could let feelings and sensations from his time with Leda enter him as he might enter shade, and he tried to hold on to parts of her, small memories that faded and wavered unreliably as he tried to keep them still. Maybe they won't come, he thought, and heard them at the door, and he could feel his heart within his chest and the fear of facing this alone like a single transparent hand against his back. They cleaned his cell while he lay there, and when they lifted him to his feet his mattress was dragged away, and even supported as he was by two men he was trembling and unsteady and desired to press his heel against the stone floor to steady himself. He told himself he should be calm and controlled and lucid for this and closed his eyes to shake off the numbness and he felt he wanted to say a measured goodbye to even this world but his breathing would not allow it, and the sensation he felt as they brought him across the cell and laid him on their pallet was that of sliding slowly across warm sheet ice. They settled him into it and tied him down and he registered from the feel of the air and the paleness outside his window that it was sometime before dawn, and he began an incantation of names: Leda, his mother, his father, Albert, Eski, Seelie, David, Nicholas, Herman, Mrs. Fetscher, and Leda, the loop allowing him the sense that his past was there with him still breathing in the darkness, and as they lifted him and rocked him along he felt he was being allowed a dream, David and him at the ocean, David gone, himself on a sandbar surrounded by fog and everything silent except the lapping of waves. There was a nonvisual sense of Leda, a certainty she was there because of the weight of her arms and the warmth of her body, and because he thought Kehr was wrong and the mercy he would be granted had no conditions.

And from that sandbar they could see the offshore Seprides, the Roof of Hell, and as his body tilted on its axis and hands steadied him against the cold iron on his back and other hands fumbled with the shackles around his wrists, some part of him wanted to generate an image of retribution, a smiting and a scouring of the earth: the sea at night in front of the island churning as if stirred from beneath, an explosion, and then the wave of Albert's father's memory: at first a thin phosphorescent line rising higher and higher in the distant darkness, and then the clear silvery-white crest showing the wall of black water beneath it, the air pressure a rising roar before it, the whole sea piling up behind it, and when it hit the hills themselves would seem to capsize, and the ground roll like choppy waves in a rough sea, the cove itself falling away in concentric ranks to expose the bodies of all the tortured and the dead, all forgotten, all buried sitting up and facing the sea, but as Kehr came closer and the world came back to that room, in the end it was Leda, Leda, always and only Leda.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

SPECIAL THANKS TO GERRY HOWARD,

RON HANSEN, K. K. ROEDER, AND EDWARD HIRSCH

About the Author

Jim Shepard (b. 1956) is the author of four short story collections and seven novels, most recently
The Book of Aron
, which has been shortlisted for both the Kirkus Prize and the American Library Association Andrew Carnegie Medal. Originally from Connecticut, Shepard now lives in Williamstown, Massachusetts. He is the J. Leland Miller Professor of English at Williams College, where he teaches creative writing and film. He won the Story Prize for his collection
Like You'd Understand, Anyway
, which was also a finalist for the National Book Award. Shepard's stories have appeared in the
New Yorker
, the
Paris Review
, the
Atlantic Monthly
,
Harper's Magazine
, and
McSweeney's Quarterly Concern
, among other publications; five have been selected for the
Best American Short Stories
, two for the
PEN/O. Henry Prize Stories
, and one for a Pushcart Prize.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Kat JK Lee

ISBN: 978-1-5040-2669-7

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com