The guard flicks his eyes over me. His face is fat and red, the skin on either side of his eyes protruding and puffy, like he is a mound of dough in the middle of rising. Soon, I fantasize, his eyes will be concealed behind flesh altogether. “What kind of incident?” he says, snapping his gum. He shifts the enormous automatic rifle he is carrying to his other shoulder.
Alex leans forward, so that he and the guard are separated through the gate by only a few inches. He drops his voice, but I can still hear him. “Her favorite color is the color of sunrise,” he says.
The guard stares at me for a split second longer and then waves for us to pass through. “Stand back while I get the gate,” he says. He disappears into a guard hut, similar to the one at the labs where Alex is stationed, and after a few seconds the electronic gates shudder inward. Alex and I start across the courtyard, toward the building entrance. With every step, the hulking silhouette of the Crypts looms a little larger. The wind picks up, whirling bits of dust across the bleak yard, sending a lone plastic bag tumbling and skipping across the grass, and the air is filled with the kind of electricity that always comes before a thunderstorm—the kind of crazed, vibrating energy that makes it seem like something huge could happen at any second, like the whole world could just dissolve into chaos. I would give anything to have Alex turn around, smile at me, and offer me his hand. Of course, he can’t. He strides quickly ahead of me, spine stiff, eyes forward.
I’m not sure how many people are confined in the Crypts. Alex estimated it to be about three thousand. There’s hardly any crime at all in Portland—thanks to the cure—but occasionally people do steal things or vandalize or resist police procedurals. Then there are the resisters and sympathizers. If they aren’t executed immediately, some of them are left to rot in the Crypts.
The Crypts also serves as Portland’s mental institution, and while there may not be much crime, despite the cure we have our share of crazies just like anywhere else. Alex would say because of the cure we have our crazies, and it’s true that early procedures or procedures gone wrong can lead to mental difficulties or a kind of mental fracture. Plus, some people are just never the same after the procedure. They go catatonic, all staring eyes and drool, and if their families can’t afford to keep them they get shoved into the Crypts as well, to molder and die.
Two enormous double doors lead into the Crypts. Tiny panes of glass, probably bulletproof and webbed with dirt and the residue of smeared insect parts, give me a blurred view of the long, dark hallway beyond, and several flickering electric lights. A typed sign, warped from rain and wind, is taped to the door. It says ALL VISITORS PROCEED DIRECTLY TO CHECK-IN AND SECURITY.
Alex pauses for just a fraction of a second. “Ready?” he says to me, without looking back.
“Yes,” I choke out.
The smell that hits us as we enter nearly jettisons me backward—out the door, through time, back to fourth grade. It’s the smell of thousands of unwashed bodies packed closely together, underneath the stinging, burning scent of industrial-strength bleach and cleanser. Overlaying it all is the smell of wet—corridors that aren’t ever truly dry, leaking pipes, mold growing behind walls and in all the little twisty places visitors are never allowed to see. Check-in is to our left, and the woman who is manning the desk behind another panel of bulletproof glass is wearing a medical mask. I don’t blame her.
Strangely, as we approach her desk, she looks up and addresses Alex by name.
“Alex,” she says, nodding curtly. Her eyes flicker to me. “Who’s that?”
Alex repeats his story about the incident at the evaluations. He’s obviously on pretty familiar terms with the guard, because he uses her first name a couple of times, and I can’t see that she’s wearing any kind of name tag. She logs our names into the ancient computer on her desk and waves us through to security. Alex says hello to the security personnel here too, and I admire him for his coolness. I’m having a pretty hard time just undoing my belt before the metal detector, my hands are shaking so badly. The guards at the Crypts seem to be about 50 percent larger than normal people, with hands like tennis rackets and chests as broad as boats. And they’re all carrying guns. Big guns. I’m doing my best not to seem utterly terrified, but it’s difficult to stay calm when you have to strip down practically to your underwear in front of giants equipped with automatic assault weapons.
Eventually we make it through security. Alex and I dress again in silence, and I’m surprised—and pleased—when I actually manage to tie my own shoelaces.
“Wards one through five only,” one of the guards calls out, as Alex gestures for me to follow him down the hall. The walls are painted a sickly yellow color. In a home, or a brightly lit nursery or office, it might be cheerful; but illuminated only by the patchy fluorescent lights that keep buzzing on and off, and stained with years and years of water and handprints and squashed insects and I don’t-want-to-know-what, it seems incredibly depressing—like getting a big smile from someone with blackened, rotting teeth.
“You got it,” Alex says. I’m assuming this means that certain areas are restricted from visitors.
I follow Alex down one narrow corridor, and then another. The hallways are empty, and so far we haven’t passed any cells, although as we continue making twists and turns the sounds of moaning and shrieking begin to float to us, as well as strange animal sounds, bleating and mooing and cawing, like a bunch of people are imitating a barnyard. We must be near the mental ward. We don’t pass any other people, though, no nurses or guards or patients. Everything is so still it’s almost frightening: silent, too, except for those awful sounds, which seem to emanate from the walls.
It seems safe to talk, so I ask Alex, “How does everybody know you here?”
“I come by a lot,” he says, as though this is a satisfactory answer. People don’t “come by” the Crypts. It’s not exactly up there with the beach. It’s not even up there with a public restroom.
I’m thinking he won’t elaborate further, and I’m about to press him for a more detailed answer, when he blows air out of his cheeks and says, “My father’s here. That’s why I come.”
I really didn’t think that anything could further surprise me at this point, or penetrate the fog in my brain, but this does. “I thought you said your father was dead.”
Alex told me a long time ago that his dad had died, but he’d refused to give any details. “He never knew he had a son”: That’s the only thing Alex had said, and I figured it meant that his dad was dead before Alex was born.
Ahead of me, Alex’s shoulders rise and fall: a small sigh. “He is,” he says, and makes an abrupt right turn down a short hallway that ends at a heavy iron door. This is marked with another printed sign. It says LIFERS. Underneath the word, someone has written in pen, HA HA.
“What are you—” I’m more confused than ever, but I don’t have time to finish formulating my question. Alex pushes his way out the door and the smell that greets us—of wind and grass and fresh things—is so unexpected and welcome that I stop speaking, taking long, grateful gulps of air. Without realizing it, I’ve been breathing through my mouth.