“Of course, there is an easier way. You tell me everything… now. No pain. No agony. You could even get a position of leadership. You… would get to enjoy the benefits of being a part of the Authority. The Capital, as you could discover, is not without its rewards and charms. There’s food you haven’t seen in decades.” He laughed. “And women? Not those desert-worn types you find in the settlements. A different life here, Marshall. You should consider it.”
“I have.”
He felt the Enforcers on either side tense, ready to kick the wind out of him again.
“You can fucking keep it.”
“So. The good soldier to the end. In a world that doesn’t deserve one. Stupid decision.”
Cross sat down.
“Now, let’s begin. Tell me, who is in your cell?”
Marshall took a breath. He focused on the lights, the monitors with their images of the Capital fortress, the shiny metal floor, the nearby table with its… implements.
“Captain John Marshall, United States Army, serial number 9423382869.”
Cross waved a hand in the air.
It was time to begin.
Marshall was on his knees, the lights not so bright anymore.
He was dripping sweat and blood, making his vision blurry again, his eyes sting. His shirt had been ripped off, and now his back was a mesh of welts and cuts.
And yet the worst part had been the hesitation before each blow landed.
Then two of the Enforcers started playing a game with his head, punching at it like it was a boxing bag, first to one side-followed by screams at him to get up-and then another smash to the opposite side.
Over and over.
He lost count of the number of times Cross had signaled them to stop so he could repeat his question.
Then, getting no answer to that, other questions.
Where is your base?
Who are the other leaders?
What equipment have you gathered that may prove dangerous to us?
Then more lashes to the back, more blood, more savage punches to the head that sent Marshall twisting to the floor, curling in on himself, his face smacking down hard on the metal.
It went on and on and on…
“Pull him up. To his feet.”
Marshall could barely stand. His head throbbed from the blows, while his brain now dreaded more savage lashes to the back.
“All right. As I said, Marshall, I can be patient. Today was to show you just that. But tomorrow-Colonel, if you would-”
Casey walked over to the table and brought back a fistful of shiny metal objects.
“There you go, Captain. You see them? Each can have a different purpose. Some are narrow and sharp, others are broad and unfortunately dull. There are so many ways they can be used to produce pain. As you know, we learned some tricks from those we fought-back in the day. And here, now, we are no longer afraid to use them.”
Marshall tilted his head at the objects. Looking at what Casey held in his hand, like so many lethal lollipops, was nearly enough to make him groan.
Today had been nothing.
“I will give you twenty-four hours. To remember things. To recall. And,” he said, pointing at the tray of torture, “to think on what we have here for you. And know this-it doesn’t stop there. When your body gets-what would be the word- acclimatized to the pain of metal on skin, we will move on to other things. In the end, you will talk. You will beg to talk.”
Cross started to walk away. Marshall saw a door in the corner of the room open.
“Think on it, Captain. No need for it. No need for any of this.”
Cross, followed by Casey, disappeared from the room, and the Enforcers holding him up dragged him in the other direction.
And as they did, Marshall thought…
How long can I hold out?
More importantly: Did it matter?
Because he knew one thing: if the study of dictatorships and prison and torture told us anything, it was that sooner or later, God, everyone talks.
And with his feet dragging on the floor as they pulled him away, Marshall tried to find something in his mind that resembled hope.
For now, he found nothing.
THIRTY-FIVE
“ Y ou wait here until Mr. Stiles is ready to see you.”
The man talking to Raine had a headset on and held a clipboard tightly, as though it contained the secrets of the universe.
Somehow, Raine doubted it.
The man spoke into the mic of the headset.
“Yes, yes, he’s here, Mr. Stiles. He looks…” The scrawny man looked at Raine. “He looks set. No, sir. I will.” Putting a hand over the mic, he said, “Mr. Stiles-”
“Is ready to see me?”
The man nodded.
“Lead on.”
The assistant led Raine into a room lit by the glow of TVs all showing the same thing: a frozen shot of the words MUTANT BASH. In front of all these screens, people sat at control desks.
Sally had already told Raine that there was only one network. This was it, and Stiles ran its most popular show…
Where people battled mutants in an arena each week for money and for their lives.
Raine took in all the faces, finally settling on one that was familiar-he recognized it from the billboards he had seen around town. Stiles sat behind one of the control desks, at a good vantage point for all the monitors. He tapped one of the people sitting at the dials and whispered something as Raine came closer.
Like he’s pointedly trying to act busy before he talks to me.
And what a guy.
Easily the fattest human Raine had met in this world. Layers of excess blubbery skin around his neck. And yet Stiles sat with his legs crossed as though he was on a throne and not a director’s chair.
Raine stood there, scrawny assistant with a clipboard by his side.
When Raine looked away, the assistant rolled his eyes and gave him a nod indicating that he should give his full attention to Mr. Stiles.
The things one has to do just to stay alive.
Though Sally said this wasn’t the wisest step in that direction. She had offered to set him up, get him a vehicle of some kind to escape to a settlement where they might not worry about newcomers.
He simply asked: “Does such a place exist?”
And she had no answer.
Finally, Stiles turned to him and he got to see the man’s face, looking oddly inflated, with buggy eyes ready to pop out of his fat head. The man’s fingers looked way too stubby to operate the controls.
“Greetings, Mr. Raine; J.K. Stiles.”
For once Raine was happy that handshakes had gone the way of the dinosaurs and fast-food outlets.
Stiles pursed his lips as if that mouth wasn’t happy without something to chew or suck on.
“New to Wellspring, I hear?”
“Yeah.”
“Quite the show last night. Some race. Lot of unhappy people with that outcome, I can tell you.”
Stiles began laughing, a deep, phlegmy sound that looked to end with the blubbery bear of a man rolling onto the floor, dead.
“Want to explain your show to me? This Mutant Bash…”
Stiles became suddenly intense, his eyes gleaming. “Oh, eager, are we? Well, this, right here, is where… the magic happens.”
Christ.
“Not just the cameras, but all the surprises in the Bash are controlled from here. We like to keep the show fresh. Give the viewers something new, something that they haven’t seen every week.”
“Well, they haven’t seen me.”
Stiles let his smile fade. “Yes, but they’ve seen a lot of nobodies from nowhere walk into our studio arena before. And while they love newbies, they also love-” He cleared his throat, its product swallowed. “-seeing when they don’t walk out.”
“People like it when the mutants win?”
“Ohhh, no, Mr. Raine, no. Nobody likes mutants. Everybody wants to see the muties get theirs, and good. But not all at once, you see. They want”-he turned one of his paws into a fist and banged it down into the open palm of his other hand-“drama. Suspense. Story, Mr. Raine, story! Good over evil, human over beast. And you don’t get that without our side-the humans, the normal-taking some hits.”