The Department of Corrections, Book One
Chapter 21: Level NegSix - Virology. Sector A. Secondary Elevator A. Level 66. Walkway A.

Inside of Dissection Cell A-4891.

AlterGrav Off: Atrium in SEG (standard Earth gravity) Mode.

Ivanov was strapped down atop a chilly, stainless-steel autopsy table—the same one Malyj had just occupied. He was staring up at the Rorschach-test-like concrete ceiling, his impressionable mind left to psychoanalyze the abstract, ink-blot-like water stains: every dark stain suggested his imminent demise. His giant limbs extending over the chromium-plated autopsy table’s smooth-rounded edges; he looked like a Russian bear trapped in the jaws of a mousetrap. He was struggling to break free from the many thick, sweat-stiff, sweat-stained, light-brown leather straps that held him in place. Each sweaty strap like a blessed prayer rope biting into his evil-possessed flesh.

“Please, give the rapist, the Code R-101 violator, his fatal injection,” said Dr. Burgess to disheveled Dnarnya. She was wearing Dr. Burgess’ white lab coat to cover her nakedness. She felt pissed off, violated, and dirty; she could still smell giant Ivanov’s oppressive, sauerkraut-like-reeking sweat and sperm on her Ivanov sweat and sperm impregnated skin.

“With pleasure,” Dnarnya intoned, full of self-controlled fury. She stood over her giant attacker—ringlets of her dark hair danced in the artificial light like the angry snakes of a Gorgon, staring down at him, looking straight into his swollen pig eyes, turning him to stone until his bloodshot pig eyes darted away in shame. Slowly, steadily, she pushed the long, insect-like proboscis-needle deep into a vein as thick as a Polish sausage that was bulging and twisting under the taut, kapusta-colored skin of his muscular, stuffed-cabbage-sized bicep; violently plunging the syringe, ten times (10x) the standard dose (1x) of Kallosomacain (Bogonarkodenotikos-19-66.67®) rushed into his violated bloodstream.

Officer Grohowski watched in silence, disgusted with Ivanov; the smoke from his cigarette swirling in the artificial air like oily water. Ivanov stared up at a symmetrical blot on the waterlogged concrete ceiling. He could feel the ice-cold Kallosomacain circulating through his boiling circulatory system. His eyes searchlights going dim. His heart . . .

“Was it worth it?” Dnarnya asked calmly.

Ivanov’s bloodshot pig eyes darted back to Dnarnya’s cold snake eyes. He looked terrified, an expression on his face like his mind was gnawing on panicked thoughts, like his dueling thoughts were killing one another, like he realized he was dying. He could see tiny, rust-colored freckles against the ghost-white of Dnarnya’s beautiful face. Terror-stricken, he blurted: “See you in hell b . . . . !”

Ivanov’s bloodshot, panic-filled eyes fluttered, then shut. His head tilted back, then fell to the left. His broad chest heaving; his breathing erratic. His massive limbs straining, almost snapping the thick, creaking-leather restraints; their solid-steel buckles buckling and bending like they were made of an elastic polymeric substance. Then he . . .

Dnarnya ripped the fingerprint-smudged monocle and gold-plated chain from around Ivanov’s bulging, unshaven neck: the same dirty monocle she was forced to stare at when the huge animal had mounted her; the same dirty monocle that had been swaying back and forth and back and forth trying to hypnotize her into believing Ivanov’s words: Quote. “You know you like it.” End quote.

She asked again, this time lashing him with her sharp tongue: “Was it worth it?!” She threw the dirty glass monocle at the concrete floor where “it!” happened: shattered glass danced like uncut diamonds toward the tarnished floor drain; the gold-plated chain slid down the perforated floor drain like a cheap snake.

No answer . . . Ivanov was dead. Relieved, Dnarnya started to sob hysterically.

“Corrections Officer Nedgob Mikhailovich Ivanov—Badge Number CBC058908—terminated.” VIL-EN’s mechanical voice flatlined from the water-stained ceiling’s toneless, rust-eaten speakers.

Dr. Burgess thought, unsympathetically: My favorite henchman, dead, another individual cell shed from the collective organism. Then he ordered: “Dnarnya! report to Level NegFour - Medical, see Dr. Huxwell himself; then report to me on Level NegFive - Psychological. Once cleared, I will personally issue you a sick leave pass and a surface world permit. Take as much furlough as needed; go see your family down in Miami.”

Still sobbing, she nodded.

“I’ll call Stella - Head Chef of The Communal Lounge, let her know every last morsel of this giant devil Ivanov can be used for ImpKib. I’ll also schedule his HoverCart pick up with Stella’s kitchen.” Dr. Burgess spat at Ivanov’s lifeless body.

“Grohowski! keep searching every square inch of Level NegSix, capture escapee Equality 30541—alive!—and dump escapee Equality 121867 down a CorpseChute. Get Probation Officer Carney down here to assist you. . . . NOW!”

“Yessir!” Grohowski snapped clearly, saluting awkwardly, marching off into folding shadow the color of carbon.

Dnarnya looked like a ghost in Dr. Burgess’ white lab coat. The raped whimpered as she shuffled toward the main elevator. Physically and mentally exhausted. Confused. The simplest of things now the most complex—boggling her mind, shutting her mind down. Everything a heavy wave rolling in slow motion, everything pushing down against her on the way up to Level NegFour - Medical. Ivanov was dead, getting cold, yet his hot sperm still dripped from between her bruised thighs. Dnarnya was experiencing a nervous breakdown.

Dr. Burgess exited Dissection Cell A-4891: oversized head dangling and bobbing like a spectacled balloon, narrow shoulders drooping into effeminate hands, and long-thin legs like two undulating strings pedaling him forward; his entire body deflating, like a pale balloon-man leaking his helium life force from a lisping hissth. He floated right—up massive Corridor A to cantilevered Walkway A, then floated left—toward Secondary Elevator A-66 (one of the DOC’s many, many secondary elevators). Taking the see-through glass box covered in trillions of fluid reflections (forming the illusion of a single silver drop of mercury streaking inside of a cold black void) down one mile, down one level to Level NegSeven - Corrections. He stood in what felt like zero gravity, praying to a banned God. From inside of the wavering silvery drop of glass, he watched and listened to the chaotic atrium’s distorted flashing-yellow lights and garbled colicky-wailing sirens (a Code Red Alert/Escapee Alert) refracting and splashing violently against its plunging, streaking, liquefying, now nebulous glass walls. “POP!” The sudden increase in subterranean pressure made his ears pop like a balloon.

Dr. Burgess had been summoned to Dr. Karp’s office to explain his recent incompetence: Dnarnya’s rape, and how Impounds E30541 and E121867 had escaped their DissCells, on his watch. Deflated. He feared he may have jeopardized his pending promotion to Impound Czar, feared he would receive the maximum punishment of . . .

***

A surface world police officer, in full riot gear, handed Dnarnya back her sick leave pass and surface world permit: the surface world police an extension of the covert, subterranean Karpian military. He saluted her. The sun-eaten mechanical arm raised, allowing her to pass, to drive through the first of many militarized checkpoints/for-profit tolls she would encounter on the Florida Turnpike from Orlando to Miami. Her SUV accelerated, heading south, devouring hot tarmac at seventy miles per hour. She was going home for the first time in years, to visit family, to recover from being raped.