by Dirk Patton
“I asked if you wanted me to stop hitting on you. You didn’t answer, so you must be interested. Can’t blame you.”
He turned and continued climbing the ridge. Martinez’s mouth had fallen open in surprise, but she recovered and ran to catch up.
“I did not say I was interested,” she said as soon as she fell in at his side.
“Didn’t say you weren’t, either,” Strickland responded, sounding supremely confident.
“Okay. Fine. I’m not interested. There. Happy now?”
“Liar.”
“I’m going to kick your ass if you don’t stop,” Martinez said, trying to sound serious.
“That’s called foreplay. Knew you were into me.”
They were almost to the top of the ridge, Strickland’s greater height allowing him to see over the crest before Martinez. He hesitated a beat, brow furrowing, then grabbed her arm and pulled her to the ground with him. Cautiously, they moved forward until they could peek through a jumble of rocks.
The shoreline had curved, so even though they were walking north, there was a beach in front of them. Not facing directly into the ocean waves, it wasn’t nearly as broad as the previous location. The sand was no more than forty yards from surf to a series of low dunes, and thousands of figures milled about on that narrow strip.
30
Igor lay in a smear of his own waste on the cell floor. He didn’t know why his jailer had left enough slack in the chains for him to not be forced to maintain a kneeling position, and he wasn’t going to ask. He was simply grateful to not have to support his full body weight with his knees on the hard concrete.
The questions had continued, as had the severe punishments for failing to answer. He had been beaten repeatedly. The electric probe had been used extensively. He had been waterboarded. And he had refused to answer. Until Irina had been brought back into his cell.
With a gleeful smile, the torturer had brought in four soldiers who immediately began touching Irina’s naked body and penetrating her with their fingers. Irina had tightly closed her eyes and turned her face away. Igor had shouted for them to stop, and the man waved them away from Irina.
The dam was broken and Igor had answered every question he was asked. He explained the mission to Siberia to break Admiral Shevchenko out of the prison camp. Provided details on the plan to use him to convince senior Russian officers to turn on Barinov. But he couldn’t tell which officers because he didn’t know.
When the man had run out of questions, he’d left the cell, but the four soldiers didn’t. He was gone for several minutes and Igor had assumed he was consulting with a superior. When he returned, he’d asked several more questions, none of which Igor could answer. He’d walked to the cell door, pausing and looking at the four men standing around Irina and nodded. With eager smiles, they’d rushed forward. When one of them took his pants off and climbed on top of her, Igor had closed his eyes, vowing to kill every last one of them.
But refusing to watch hadn’t blocked out the sounds of Irina being repeatedly gang raped. Hadn’t muted the rough laughter of the men and the grunts whenever one of them released himself. Nor could it prevent him from hearing Irina’s soft sobs go silent as the men grew more aggressive.
Unable to no longer look, Igor had been surprised to see her staring at him with vacant eyes. Her mind had disconnected from the horrors that were being done to her body and her face was slack and disinterested as one man climbed off and another jumped up, roughly forcing himself into her anus.
It had lasted for nearly an hour, each soldier taking multiple turns. Their excitement morphed to frustration when they realized that Irina wasn’t reacting to their violations of her person. At first, they began slapping her face in an effort to force a response. When that failed, they progressed to hitting her face and breasts which were quickly covered with large, red bruises that would soon become an angry shade of purple.
When they were finally done with her, they dressed, recounting the experience in loud voices with frequent laughter. They had enjoyed themselves. Before they filed out, one of them came to stand in front of Igor, looking up into his horribly battered face. Igor met his eyes with no expression and remained silent. After several long seconds of staring, the soldier spit in Igor’s face and swaggered away, reaching out and patting Irina’s face like a lover as he exited the cell.
The jailers didn’t come for Irina for over an hour. In that time, she didn’t move or speak. Igor had watched her, wishing to see any sign of animation, but she never stopped staring at the ceiling. He called to her but was unheard or ignored. He didn’t know which.
The torturer’s assistant had finally shown up and wheeled the gurney out of the cell. He was only gone long enough to have returned Irina to hers, moving past Igor without a word. The chains from which he was suspended were suddenly released and he crashed to the concrete floor, collapsing onto his side. There had been the clank of a lock being engaged to secure the chains in place, then he’d left Igor alone.
This had been three hours and seven minutes ago. Igor knew this because he’d counted every second in his head. It was the only thing he’d had to focus on that allowed him to retain his sanity.
Thirty minutes later, he suddenly sat up as if awakening from a long slumber. He moved carefully so the chains didn’t rattle and alert a guard. Sliding sideways on the filth covered floor, he methodically examined the bunk that was bolted to the concrete wall. It was constructed of heavy iron with a woven metal mesh that supported a thin mattress.
There was enough slack in the chains for Igor to reach the outermost edge of the bunk where the mesh was attached. Running his fingers along the underneath, he zeroed in on a spot where two of the spring steel strips were attached to the perimeter. He didn’t have enough freedom of movement to see the location but could tell by feel that they were held in place by a pressed rivet.
Grasping the thin metal, he began working it back and forth. Soon, the edge cut into his hands, but he didn’t stop or even lessen the considerable pressure he was exerting. Thirty-nine minutes later, by the count in his head, the fatigued rivet finally popped free and bounced to the floor with a metallic clatter.
Igor froze, listening carefully for fast approaching footsteps that would mean a guard had heard the sound and was coming to investigate. He counted off five minutes without hearing any indication that he’d drawn attention to himself.
Sliding half a foot to the right, he grasped the other end of the strap he’d been working on. His hands were slicked with blood from the numerous deep cuts he’d sustained breaking the first end free. It was difficult to hold the smooth steel tightly enough to apply the force needed, but he worked without pause. And counted. At ninety-two minutes and eleven seconds, the second rivet popped free and Igor sat back.
He held an eight-inch length of spring steel which was an inch wide. It was very thin and flexible, and he held it in his bloody hands as he examined the shackles that were locked to each wrist. The keyholes were very small. Too small for the piece of metal to be of any benefit.
Moving cautiously, Igor looked over the system of chains and pulleys that had been used to hang him above the floor. It was quite simple. The two lengths of chain that were secured to each wrist were combined by a heavy shackle on the end of a single chain. It was then routed through a block and tackle that had been attached to the ceiling, running to a locking mechanism fastened to the back wall of the cell.
Standing, he tried to reach the shackle, but it was too far above his head. Moving toward the back wall where the single chain was locked in place, he came up short of his goal with a soft clank. Taking a breath, he thoroughly looked over the simple set up, trying to find any weak point he could exploit.
Finding none, he stepped back and took another long look at the shackle. It was ten feet above the floor, well above his head. Putting the piece of spring steel between his teeth, Igor carefully climbed the chains. As soon as he could clearly see the shackle, he lowered himself back down. The
piece of iron that connected the chains was thicker than the links and held in place by a long, heavy bolt. It wasn’t being loosened without a large wrench.
Returning to a seat on the floor, Igor took his time giving his restraints another long inspection. After eleven minutes and thirteen seconds, he acknowledged to himself that the only way to freedom, other than a key for the manacles on his wrists, was to successfully reach the lock on the back wall.
His eyes flicked back and forth. Measuring. Estimating. He looked down at his left wrist. Held it up to the weak light. Pulled the manacle as far down as it would go until it came to a hard stop against the top of his hand where the flesh was already raw from supporting his full body weight while he’d been hanging.
Without hesitation, Igor grasped his left thumb and gave it a hard jerk. There was a loud snap as it dislocated and he paused to breathe through the pain for a few seconds.
Another check and the manacle was farther down on his hand. He pushed and pulled on it as hard as he could, but it was clamped too tightly, even with copious amounts of his own blood used for lubrication. He needed to make his hand smaller. Taking another breath in preparation for what was to come, he pressed the thin edge of the strip of spring steel against the base of his dislocated thumb and began sawing.
31
“Why are we stopping?” Rachel cried when the driver suddenly hit the brakes.
Mavis and Joe had drifted off, still holding hands. Both of them startled awake at her voice, sitting up and looking around.
“We’re there, ma’am. Holding back while the rest of the team moves in and clears the area.”
Rachel wanted to leap out of the vehicle and race ahead to find John, but she’d lived in the dangerous new world long enough to know better. Chapman’s Marines were doing it the right way. Unconsciously placing a protective hand on her belly, she reminded herself that she had more to think about than just her husband.
She traded a look with Mavis, who didn’t offer any insights on whether she thought John was okay or not. Instead, the girl placed her free hand on top of Rachel’s and smiled at her. After a moment, Rachel smiled back as she leaned over to kiss Mavis’s head.
It seemed to take forever, the patience of the two Marines in the front seat only fueling Rachel’s impatience. She opened her mouth to complain several times but managed to stop herself. Settling for staring out the window at the dark moonscape of the Arizona desert, she wished Dog had ridden with them. He had been a constant companion since the day the world ended and she’d grown used to being able to draw comfort from his quiet presence.
“Copy.”
Her head snapped around when the driver muttered quietly into his radio, then they were in motion.
“Looks clear, ma’am,” he said without taking his eyes off the road. “But the dog is alerting to something they can’t spot. The Colonel wants us to stay close to you and the girl.”
“If he’s alerting, there’re infected in the area.”
“That’s what the Aussie said, too, ma’am. But if there are, they aren’t too close. Regardless, please don’t wander off without an escort.”
Normally, Rachel would have been irritated that the man didn’t think she was capable of taking care of herself, but even for her things weren’t normal. She settled for nodding as she leaned forward to peer between the men, spotting a small, private jet sitting in the middle of the road.
The driver brought them to a stop a few yards behind the tail of the aircraft, Rachel popping her door and leaping out before he could shut down the engine. Mavis was right behind her and with muttered curses the two Marines jumped out and had to break into a run to catch up with them.
Racing around a wing, Rachel saw the open door, air-stairs extending to the pavement and angled for it. She could see a dim light from inside the jet as she approached the opening, then pounded up the stairs and nearly knocked Lucas on his ass when she plowed into him. An instant later, Mavis crashed into her back, then she was shoving Lucas aside to get to where Chapman was kneeling over an unmoving form.
Lucas began dragging the dead Russian co-pilot out of the plane as Rachel dropped to her knees and touched John’s face. Dog was on the far side of his body, lying with his head on John’s chest. His eyes swiveled to Rachel, then Mavis, a low whine coming from his throat a moment later.
“What’s wrong with him?” Mavis asked, her voice threatening to crack with emotion.
“I don’t know, honey.”
Rachel took a deep, calming breath and forced herself to begin evaluating her husband’s condition. His skin was hot to the touch, a fever raging inside him. His breathing was labored and when she touched his wrist, she felt his racing pulse.
“What you got?”
Rachel glanced up at Joe as he moved past Lucas into the cabin. A Marine followed him with the two big duffels he’d brought along.
“Don’t know. Running a high fever with labored breathing and his pulse is over a hundred.”
“Fever?” Joe asked in surprise.
Rachel met his eyes and nodded. His own injuries forgotten, Joe directed the Marine on where to put the bags as he lowered himself next to John. Mavis moved back without being asked, then circled around to sit with Dog, her hand on John’s big arm as she watched Joe work.
“Fever’s one-oh-five point eight,” he said after checking a temporal thermometer he’d brought along.
“Is that bad?” Mavis asked softly.
“Very,” Joe answered, turning to Chapman. “We need to cool him. Now.”
“I’m open to suggestions on how we do that,” Chapman said.
Joe looked at him for a moment, then turned back to John and continued working. Lucas watched for a moment, glanced around the cabin then rushed to the front of the plane. There were several crashes as he tossed items out of his way, then he hurried back with a plastic bin full of half-melted ice cubes.
“All that was in the galley,” he said, handing it to Rachel.
“Pack the ice around his neck,” Joe said quickly. “Don’t spill the cold water. Use it to soak his shirt.”
Mavis grabbed a blanket off a seat and helped Rachel do as Joe had instructed. While they did this, he drew several vials of blood and turned to his equipment, pausing before beginning any tests.
“Safe to stay here?” he asked Chapman.
“For the moment, but I’d feel a lot better if we got the hell out of here. We’re damn close to Phoenix and the Russians, and the dog’s telling us there’re infected upwind.”
“I need to run some tests,” Joe said hurriedly. “They’re going to take some time and my equipment can’t be bouncing around in a Hummer while it’s running.”
“Can’t guarantee we won’t have to bug out five minutes from now,” the Colonel said.
Joe stared at the vials in thought for a moment, then looked at John when he emitted a soft groan.
“He’s waking up!” Mavis cried.
John went quiet without any further groans and her excitement quickly faded. Joe looked at him for a moment, then made a decision. Instructing Rachel to get a saline IV started, he activated one piece of his gear and held a vial of John’s blood ready to insert once the electronics had finished starting up.
Lucas, who had gone to check the cockpit, returned, dragging an unconscious man. He tossed him into a seat and spent a minute restraining him with duct tape.
“We’re going to Yuma,” he said when the Russian pilot was secured.
“What?” Rachel asked as she inserted a needle in John’s arm.
“Plane’s got enough fuel. I just checked. Joe, those gizmos of yours okay in a moving aircraft?”
“Better to wait until we get there. How long could it take? Twenty minutes?”
“About that,” Lucas said with a nod.
“For Christ’s sake!” Rachel snapped. “Quit talking about it and get us in the air already!”
Without hesitating, Lucas turned and raced for the cockpit. Chapman used
his radio to give orders for his team to withdraw back to Yuma, advising them he would be staying aboard the jet. There was a loud thunk as Lucas pulled up the air-stairs and secured the door, then the engines whined to life a couple of minutes later. But they didn’t start moving.
Frowning, Chapman climbed around John and went to the cockpit. Lucas was watching a red warning light on the instrument panel.
“What’s wrong?”
“Cargo hatch is open,” Lucas said, nodding at the offending light. “One of your guys is checking to make sure...”
He stopped speaking when the light went out. A Marine appeared in front of the aircraft, flashing a thumbs up when he saw Lucas look at him, then turned and ran out of the jet’s way.
“Better grab a seat, Colonel,” Lucas said, advancing the throttles.
32
Rachel and Mavis sat with John during the short flight back to Yuma. There had been a momentary panic when they all heard the whistle of air from a bullet hole somewhere in the rear of the fuselage, but Lucas calmed their fears when he told them they wouldn’t be flying high enough for it to be an issue.
Dog refused to move for the duration of the short flight, keeping his head firmly planted on John’s chest. As soon as they were on the ground, Joe powered up his equipment and began working. After a long look at her unconscious husband’s face, Rachel moved to see what Joe was doing and have a quiet conversation with him.
“You think the virus is doing something?”
Joe kept working without looking up as he answered.
“Apparently you do, or you wouldn’t have dragged my ass along for the ride.”
“Thought it would be a good idea. Really, what do you think?”
“Don’t know what I think,” he said with a sigh. “But the fever bothers me.”
His comment spurred her to turn to Mavis.
“Run up to the galley and see if the ice maker has any more ice in it.”
Mavis leapt to her feet and nimbly ran forward, returning a moment later, shaking her head as she resumed her seat at John’s side.
