This is a work of fiction.

All of the characters, organizations, and events

portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously.

THE HOLLOW CITY

Copyright © 2012 by Dan Wells

All rights reserved.

A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor ® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN 978-0-7653-3170-0 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4299-5061-9 (e-book)

First Edition: July 2012

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 ONE

“WHO ARE YOU?”

I’m in a hospital bed; I can tell by the rails on the sides,
and by the white coats on the people gathered around me.
Their heads are haloed by bright fluorescent lights, still
indistinct as I struggle to wake up. There’s a needle in my
elbow, an IV tube reaching out behind me. I feel nauseous
and slow, and the light burns my eyes. How did I get here?
Where’s Lucy?
“You’re awake,” says one of the men, “good, good. You
gave us quite a scare, Mr. Shipman.”
He knows my name. I stare at the man, forcing my eyes
to focus. He’s older, sixties maybe, in a long, white hospital
coat. Two other men and one woman stand by him, proba-
bly also doctors, pressed around my bed. There’s a guard by

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 DAN WELLS

the door— a guard? Or just an orderly? I don’t know what’s

going on.
My throat is dry and I struggle to talk. “Why don’t I re-
member coming here?”
“My name is Dr. Murray,” he says. “You had a fall— do
you remember falling?”
Do I remember anything? I remember hiding out, and
then . . . a chase? Someone found me. Yes, I’m sure of it; I re-
member running. And there was an empty city, full of empty
houses, and a deep, dark hole, like a well or a mine shaft.
The people I was running from were bad—that much I
know. Did they catch me? Are these doctors part of it? I slow
down and try to think.
“Where’s Lucy?”
“Who?”
“Lucy, my girlfriend, she was with me in the . . . where
was I?”
“What do you remember?”
“I remember a pit,” I say slowly, watching their faces. “I
fell down a pit.”
Dr. Murray frowns; he thinks I’m wrong. Am I? But I
remember a pit, and he said I had fallen, and . . . My head
aches—not just my head, my mind aches. Dr. Murray leafs
through a slim folder, holding up a page to read the one
below it. “You fell, or jumped, out of a window. Do you re-
member that?”
I say nothing, trying to remember. Think, Michael, think!
“We were worried you’d hurt yourself,” says one of the
other doctors, “but nothing’s broken.”
“If he’s lost his memory,” says the woman, “he might have
hit his head harder than we thought.”

22
 THE HOLLOW CITY

I scan my eyes around the room, trying to get a better

sense of where I am— a regular hospital room, with cabinets
and curtains and hand sanitizers lining the walls. No com-
puters that I can see. Good.
“We would have seen more damage to his head,” says an-
other doctor. “The abrasions were grouped on his legs and
arms—he landed about as well as you could hope to.”
“Mr. Shipman,” says Dr. Murray, catching my eye and
smiling. “Michael. Can you tell us where you’ve been for the
past two weeks?”
I frown, my suspicions rising. I’d been trying to disappear,
and I think I thought I had, but now I’m in here, surrounded
by prying eyes and equipment. I shift my legs imperceptibly,
testing for restraints under the covers. It doesn’t feel like
they’ve tied me down. They might just be normal doctors—
they might not be part of the Plan. Just helpful doctors who
don’t know who I am or who’s after me. Maybe I can still get
away.
Maybe I can, but not with five people between me and
the door. I need to take my time.
“We’re only trying to help you, Michael.” The doctor smiles
again. They always smile too much. “Once we knew who you
were and we looked up your file, well, you can imagine that we
started to wonder.”
I stare at him, my eyes cold. So they do know who I am, or
at least part of it. I start to tense up, but I force myself to calm
down. Just because they know who I am, that still doesn’t
mean they know about the Plan. “No,” I say firmly, “I can’t
imagine.” The men I was running from had been watching
me for years—if they gave the doctors their file, they’ll know
everything about me. I shift my legs again, bracing myself to

23
 DAN WELLS

bolt for the door if I have to make a move. “What does the
file say?”
He raises the folder in his hands, an old manila folder
with a curling green sticker on the tab. “Standard things,”
he says. “Medical history, hospital stays, psychological evalu-
ations—”
“Wait,” I say. “Is that it? It’s just a medical history?”
Dr. Murray nods. “What else would it be?”
“Nothing.” So they don’t have the real fi le, just the fake
one from the state. That’s good, but it could cause problems
of its own. “None of that stuff matters.”
The doctor glances at the man beside him. “We’re doc-
tors, Michael, it matters a great deal to us.”
“Except that it’s all false,” I say. I know I can trust them
now, but how can I explain what’s going on? “The state file
was created . . .” It was created by Them, by the people who’ve
been following me. Except I’m too smart to tell the doctors a
truth they’ll never believe. I shake my head. “It was created as
a joke,” I say. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Dr. Murray nods again. “I see.” He fl ips to a page in the
fi le. “Ongoing treatment for depression and generalized
anxiety disorder.” He turns the page. “Two weeks in Powell
Psychiatric Hospital, fourteen months ago.” He turns the
page. “Multiple prescriptions for Klonopin, paid for by state
welfare.” He looks up. “You say this is all part of a joke?”
How am I supposed to explain this to him without look-
ing crazy? I close my eyes, feeling the early flutters of a ner-
vous panic. I roll my hands into fists and take a deep breath:
it’s okay. They’re not part of the Plan. They don’t even have
me tied down. I can probably walk right out of here if I can

24
 THE HOLLOW CITY

just fi nd a way to defuse their suspicions. I glance around

again; no computers, and the TV’s off. I might be okay.
“It’s just the . . . state doctors,” I say. “You need to talk
to my personal doctor, my family practitioner. Dr. Ambrose
Vanek. He can straighten this out.”
“We’ll contact him right away,” says Murray. He nods to
one of the other doctors, who makes a note on his pad and
steps out of the room. “I’m afraid his information wasn’t
included in your report or we would have called him al-
ready. We’ve called the only number on here, someone named
L. Briggs, but we haven’t been able to reach her. Is that your
friend Lucy?”
“She’s my girlfriend,” I say again, trying to look helpful.
Have They gotten to her yet? Do I even dare drag her into
this? “I’m afraid I don’t know her number.”
Dr. Murray raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know your girl-
friend’s phone number?”
“I don’t use phones.”
“Ah.” He nods and makes a note. “Is there anyone else
we can contact?”
“No.”
He waves the folder slightly. “This says you live with your
father.”
“Yeah, but don’t call him.”
“His son is in the hospital; I’m sure he’d appreciate a call.”
I clench my fist tighter, trying to breathe evenly. “Just . . .
please.”
Dr. Murray pauses, then nods. “If that’s what you want.”
He looks at another sheet in his folder. “It says here that
your Klonopin was prescribed by Dr. Little, after your stay

25
 DAN WELLS

at Powell last year. Have you been taking your pills, Mi-
chael?”
I nod. “Of course, Doctor.” It’s a lie—I fi ll my prescrip-
tion every few weeks, just so no one asks questions, but I
haven’t taken it in months. I’m not convinced the pills are
part of the Plan, but I’m not taking any chances.
“Excellent,” says Murray again, but I can see his smile
falter. He doesn’t believe me. I scramble to fi nd something
else to soothe him—what’s in that fi le? It probably mentions
my job at Mueller’s; the state got me that job. Maybe I can
convince him I’m nothing to worry about.
“You said I wasn’t injured in the fall, right?” I smile, trying
to look normal. “Because I really need to get back to work
soon—Mr. Mueller really relies on me.” There’s no response,
so I keep going. “You know Mueller’s Bakery, on Lawrence?
Best doughnuts in the city, you know. I’d be happy to send
you a box once I get back there.” I liked working at Mueller’s:
no punch-card machine, and no computers.
“Yes,” says Dr. Murray, flipping to another page of the fi le,
“it was Mr. Mueller who reported you missing.” He looks
up. “It seems you didn’t show up for work for nearly two
weeks and he got worried. Tell me, Michael, can you tell us
where you’ve been during the last two weeks?”
They got to Mueller. I’m ner vous now, and I glance
around again. No machines; the room might be clean.
“I need to go, please.”
“Do you remember where you’ve been?”
I don’t. I rack my brain, trying to remember anything I
can. Empty houses. A dark hole. I can’t remember. I still feel
nauseous, like I’m thinking through syrup. Did they drug me?
I look around again, trying to see what’s behind the bed.

26
 THE HOLLOW CITY

“Is everything okay, Michael?”

I raise up on my arms, craning my neck around the edge
of the bed, and recoil almost instantly, like I’ve been struck.
An IV stand looms over my shoulder, with a small black box
just inches behind my head. Red digital lines turn in circles
as clear liquid drips slowly into my arm.
I try to jump off the other side of the bed, but the doctors
move in, holding me in place.
“Easy, Michael. What’s wrong?”
“I have to get out of here,” I say, grunting through clenched
teeth. My chest feels painfully tight. I scrabble at my elbow, rip
up the tape, and pull out the IV needle before they can stop
me; pain lances through my arm.
“Frank!” says Dr. Murray, and the big man by the door
rushes over and grabs me by the shoulders.
“No!” I shout, “No, it’s not like that, I just need to get
out of here!”
“Hold him down!”
“What’s wrong, Michael?” asks Murray, leaning in over
my face. “What happened?”
“You don’t understand!” I plead. “Get it out, please, get it
out of the room.”
“Get what out?”
“The IV stand, the monitor, whatever it is—get it out!”
“Calm down, Michael, you’ve got to tell us what’s wrong!”
“I told you what’s wrong, get it out of here!”
“Dr. Pine,” says Dr. Murray, nodding at the IV stand, and
the female doctor lets go of my leg and wheels the IV stand
to the door, gathering up the trailing plastic tube as she moves
it into the hall. It helps, but I can still feel it watching me. Do
the doctors know? They can’t know—they can’t know or they

27
 DAN WELLS

wouldn’t be in here. That means they’re friends, but only if I

act fast. My freakout over the IV monitor was too much, and
I’ve tipped Them my hand. The woman comes back. We
don’t have long.
“What else is in here?” I ask, falling back against the pil-
low and allowing the orderly to hold me still. Don’t fight;
they have to trust you. “Any other monitors? Computers? Cell
phones?”
“Michael, we all have cell phones, we’re doctors—”
“Get them out.”
“Please, Michael, calm down—”
“This is important!” I close my eyes, struggling to esti-
mate the time: how long have I been here? Three minutes
since I woke up, give or take a few seconds, and who knows
how long I was unconscious before that. How long do we
have before They get here?
I don’t have time for games, and there are too many of
them to fight. I need to lay out the truth and hope for the
best. I take a deep breath. “I’ll tell you everything, but not
until the room is clean. No electronic devices of any kind.”
Dr. Murray nods, but smugly, as if he’s heard it all before:
I’m just another crazy guy. “Why do electronics frighten you,
Michael?”
It’s the same as last year—the same arrogant assumptions
that landed me in a psych ward. Once the system decides
you’re crazy, there’s not much you can do to fight it. I shake
my head. “Cell phones outside.”
Murray looks at me for a moment, glances at the others,
then shrugs. “Okay, Michael, whatever makes you comfort-
able, but you have to talk to us.”
“Hurry.” I try not to sound desperate. Murray gathers

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 THE HOLLOW CITY

their cell phones, takes them to the hall, and a moment later
he comes back. He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him
off. “Listen very carefully, all of you, because I don’t know
how much time we have. I’m very sorry you got dragged
into this, but I’m being followed by some very dangerous
men, and I need to get out of here as fast as I possibly can.
They can track me—They can track all of us—through elec-
tronics: computers, cell phones, TVs, radios, everything. I
know this is hard to believe, but you’ve got to trust me.
Now, does that window open?”
Murray is nodding again. “Easy, Michael, just take it
easy—”
“You don’t understand,” I say. “They will be here any
minute. Look, if the window doesn’t open we can get out
through the halls, but only if we stay far away from anything
dangerous. Back stairs usually have cameras, so we can’t
risk—”
“Please, Michael, no one is chasing you.”
“Yes they are,” I say, “They’re men, Faceless Men, and
they can track us through your cell phones, through com-
puters, through anything that sends or receives a signal.
They’re not looking for you, so you don’t have to come with
me, just let me slip out the door—”
“The Red Line,” says the woman, and I glance up to see
that all four doctors and the orderly have backed away.
I try to look behind me. “What red line?”
“When you say ‘faceless,’ ” asks the woman, “do you mean,
like, the face has been . . . destroyed?”
“No.” I turn back to them, watching their faces. What
are they thinking? “No, it’s nothing like that at all. They’re
faceless, literally faceless, no eyes, no nose, no mouth, noth-

29
 DAN WELLS

ing, just . . . blank.” I pass my hand over my face, willing

them to understand. They stare at me a moment, and I dare
to hope.
“This is more than just anxiety disorder,” says one of the
men, and the others nod.
“I’m not crazy,” I say.
“Brain damage?” asks another doctor. They’re not even ac-
knowledging me anymore.
“Could be,” says another, “or it could be all mental.
Schizophrenia?”
The woman eyes me warily. “There was another one just
last week, you know. We can’t take the chance.”
I feel myself start to tremble, the ner vous vibration on my
chest making it hard to breathe. “Please—what are you talk-
ing about?”
Dr. Murray stops, looks at me carefully, then whispers in
another doctor’s ear. The other doctor goes into the hall,
and Murray steps forward. “Michael, I need to ask you a
question, and I need you to answer me as carefully and as
honestly as you can.” He pauses. I look at the door—where
did the other doctor go? What, or who, was he sent for?
Dr. Murray stares at me, eyes intense. “Have you seen any
bodies, anywhere, with the faces destroyed?”
“Why do you keep asking that? Where would I have seen
something like that?”
“Can you remember where you’ve been for the last two
weeks?”
“No,” I say, “I can’t remember anything! Tell me what’s
going on!”
Dr. Murray glances at the other doctors, then back at me.
“Have you ever heard of the Red Line Killer?”

30
 HOLE  IN  MY  LIFE

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