Apex

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  “Yes, Master.” Hellik spun Max around and fitted him with handcuffs.

  “I thought you’d be smarter than this,” Max said as Wilde started to walk away.

  Wilde turned, wearing a look of annoyed puzzlement. “Come again?”

  “Not finishing me off is the dumbest mistake you could possibly make.”

  “Oh please,” Wilde said, deadpan flat, “don’t you know that getting there is half the fun?”

  20

  Two guards flanked Max and marched him from the control room, following in the wake of their leader, the knife artist Wilde called Hellik.

  And he called him Master. Max doubted that all of the soldiers referred to Wilde by that lofty title. Some kind of mind control? Or something else? He remembered the smoking, acidic blood left behind in the clearing by the man who had shrugged off a lethal gunshot wound. Not human, a creation. Hellik addressing Wilde as Master, as well as his superior combat skills, had Max convinced that he strode unwillingly behind an abomination.

  Max tracked their turns while advancing through tenebrous hallways lit sporadically by wall-mounted spotlights.

  Emergency lighting. Seems Wilde needs to conserve power.

  The electric fence must be operational again. Max didn’t think it would matter. Wilde would go down today—Max had faith in his men and by no means considered himself out of the game. All he needed was an opening, one tiny instant of inattention.

  Right, left, right went the turns; then straight through a four-way intersection and down a short hallway lined with thick steel doors on the left-hand wall, each with a tiny glass observation window near the top. With Hellik blocking his view, Max couldn’t get an accurate count of the cell doors, but estimated eight to ten.

  They stopped before the third door, which Hellik opened using a red pass card as opposed to the black card Max had stolen. The interrogation room looked much like any other Max had seen both as torturer and victim: a ten-by-twelve block cube with a single bulb glaring down from the ceiling upon a concrete floor splattered with dark-brown stains, some of which snaked toward the drain in the center of the floor. Above the drain sat the sturdy metal chair he would be bound to. Several thick leather belts hung from pegs on the wall.

  Max saw no torture implements lying about and wondered what they would use on him. Heat, probably. They’ll bring her in here and start small, break a few bones and then—

  Hellik stepped behind Max and removed his handcuffs. He then commanded Max to strip. When Max didn’t move, Hellik began undressing him by ripping off his combat vest as the two guards watched.

  “Okay, I get the fucking point.” Max took off his plate carrier and discarded it on the floor next to the combat vest.

  Once he wore only trousers, Hellik called an end to the undressing and refitted Max with handcuffs, again behind his back.

  His gut wound throbbed steadily with a dull ache, but the bleeding had nearly stopped. Not very deep after all.

  If the guards were going to make a mistake, it would be as they secured him to the chair with belts, one around his ankles and another wrapped around his abdomen at elbow level. They each grabbed a belt from the wall as Hellik looked on, glaring triumphantly down at Max.

  “What’re you looking at, lizard boy? Shouldn’t you be doing insurance commercials or something?” Max asked.

  Hellik’s facial expression didn’t flicker in the slightest. He had queer, unsettling eyes the color of liquid gold, very similar to Gideon Wilde’s. The sick fuck molded him in his own image. Otherwise, he merely looked like a large, muscular man of mixed race.

  As one guard bent to wrap the belt around his torso, Max thrashed to one side and head-butted him. The guard dropped the belt, reeled backward, and cried out while grasping his broken, bleeding nose.

  Pressing his surprise attack, Max lashed out with his right foot and caught the guard kneeling before him on the chin, snapping his head back. Again, blood flew. The man bit his tongue damn near in half, and gobs of blood bubbled out of his mouth as he fell backward onto the floor and writhed in pain.

  Max faced Hellik, who strode calmly forth. Though Max knew he faced a superior adversary, Hellik’s speed still surprised him. When he aimed a kick at Hellik’s groin, the lizard man shot out a hand, seized him by the ankle, and lifted his foot toward the ceiling with ease. Max might have remained standing had he not been handcuffed, but with no arms to aid his balance, he tumbled over backward and landed hard on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs.

  Two scowling, bleeding guards behind P90 barrels glared down at him, along with an unperturbed Hellik, who stated, “Do not resist. Escape is not possible.”

  Max couldn’t argue. That appears to be the case... For now. With no viable options he allowed the guards to haul him to his feet and strap him into the chair. He hoped Hellik would not be his interrogator.

  Nah, it’ll be Wilde. Hellik doesn’t have the imagination.

  The guards departed after strapping Max to the chair. His shoulders began aching almost immediately as his arms, pulled behind his back, tingled with numbness. Hellik stood impassively, holding a large combat knife as he stood watch.

  “What’s money mean to you, Hellik?”

  Hellik said nothing.

  It was worth a shot. “So how were you made? Did Wilde conceive you in a test tube? Raise you in an incubator? Or did he simply fuck a gecko?”

  Hellik remained silent on the methods of his creation.

  Max gave up trying to bait him, a pointless task, and instead concentrated on the subtle, isometric flexing of his muscles in an attempt to expand his bonds, the only escape method he could practice with the reptilian eyeing his every move.

  Several minutes passed before the cell door opened.

  Wilde strode in, smiling and confident, walking ahead of a man who wore an eyepatch and pushed a rolling cart loaded with instruments a Civil War surgeon might have used: scalpels and knives of varying designs and lengths, pincers for both cutting and crushing, a couple of saws, some hooked metal probes.

  “You brought everything but the leeches,” Max said as eyepatch rolled the cart into a corner.

  Wilde barked a laugh. “I so enjoy your gallows humor, Max. Despite our differences, I shall miss you when you’re gone.”

  “That makes one of us.”

  “And that makes sense, for there will only be one of us left.” He dismissed Hellik, who departed with Max’s gear. “A pity your tactical acumen doesn’t equal your sense of humor. You might have presented a challenge. As it stands, however, you are a fool for meddling in my affairs a second time.”

  “If you hadn’t fled like a bottle-blond, chicken-shit coward the first time around, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “Well, it hardly seemed sporting at the time, you and a team of CIA stooges against a poor old doctor trying to stamp out genetic defects. I wonder if you even really knew what kind of organization you worked for.”

  “And here I thought you were a psycho trying to engineer a reptilian race by defrauding medical research charities. Shame on me.”

  “Shame indeed! I won’t bother explaining to you how my plans will benefit the planet—you’re nothing but a butchering warrior who only understands violence.”

  “Said the man who sanctions the hunting of humans.”

  Wilde chuckled. “Every man has his destined purpose. Some are here merely to die for the entertainment of their betters. There are dragons and there are sheep—and you, alas, run amongst the herd despite your fire-breathing nature. Such a shame.”

  “Will you get to the fucking point already?”

  “Of course. Let’s have a little q and a session, shall we? You may begin by revealing your employer. A man of your talents doesn’t come cheap, so I’m curious who funded this doomed endeavor.”

  “My fellow man. Someone needs t
o stop you in the name of humanity.”

  “Wrong answer, dear boy. Must we do this the hard way?”

  A match flared in the corner. Eyepatch puffed a fat cigar to glowing life.

  “Is there any other way?”

  “Yes, you cretin, it’s called answering the question put to you, but alas I see that we have to do things the painful way.”

  “Hmm... Was I working for someone? Guess I don’t remember, being a cretin and all.”

  Wilde shook his blond head, stepped to the instrument cart, and selected a small stainless-steel hammer. “It never ceases to amaze me how the most innocuous instruments can cause such pain. Take this hammer for instance. If I were to strike your thigh with it, you would barely feel the blow. But when I do this—” Wilde brought the hammer down on Max’s kneecap. Not with great force but rather great accuracy, striking some nerve Max never knew he possessed.

  He ground his teeth and growled, refusing to give Wilde the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in agony.

  Wilde struck his other knee, then repeated the process on both knees.

  Max quivered in exquisite pain, strained involuntarily at his bonds, and—most disturbing of all—felt his will to resist begin to crack. Just a little, but a good torturer needed nothing more.

  “That’s it, Max, tough it out. Be stoic. But you know as well as I that you can’t last forever. I mean, this—” he held the hammer aloft “—is only the beginning, nothing compared to the agony you’ll experience when your fingernails are ripped out, one by one. So stop being delusional and let’s talk business.” He leaned in close. “Who is your employer? The UN, once again? Surely even you realize that their crusade against me is entirely illusory. Still... they shouldn’t have been able to locate me so easily.”

  “Thought your Illuminati pals took care of them? Maybe your faith in the Brotherhood of Foreseers is misplaced.”

  Wilde laughed off the connection. “The Illuminati? Do you really believe that conspiracy? I think someone has been spending too much time on YouTube.”

  “You’re confirming it right now. I know—I’ve questioned more men than you have.”

  “And yet, look at you now.” Wilde scowled, looked over at eyepatch, then pointed to Max.

  Puffing on the cigar as he went, eyepatch sauntered over to Max; then, without preamble, he touched the burning coal of tobacco to Max’s neck, where it remained for far too long.

  Smelling his own flesh burning, Max bellowed his agony in a roar that made his own ears ring.

  “Ugh, such a racket you make,” Wilde said. “And here I thought you were made of sterner stuff. Now tell me who your employer is. Senator Linda Pierce, perhaps?” He cocked his head and looked deep into Max’s eyes. “Or did you come to clear the way for that tattooed hack who masquerades as a journalist?

  “Or...” He paused dramatically, paced the cell with his index finger raised as though on the cusp of a great revelation. “Perhaps you’re working with both of them. Who knows, maybe even all three. Stranger things have happened.”

  “I don’t know shit about any journalist.”

  “Really? Because she happened to be giving you oral sex on a yacht the other day.”

  “You have me mixed up with someone else.”

  “How many others did you bring? You’re short one now, you know.”

  Max said nothing, fully prepared to take another burn or hammer blow for his team.

  “Done talking, are you?” Wilde stared him down from on high, arms folded and brow creased.

  “Nah, we can talk. How is it that you look forty instead of seventy-five?”

  Wilde shook his head, threw up an exasperated hand, and said to eyepatch, “That’s the problem with low comedy—a higher man can only stoop for so long. Mr. Ahlgren is now in your hands. Put him to the question.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the torturer in a Cockney accent. “I can be most persuasive.”

  “I’ve never doubted it for a second. Kill him if he won’t talk, but I don’t think that will be an issue.” Wilde sneered down at Max. “And now I must adjourn to prepare for your friends. I leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Shackle. If I believed in God, I might implore him to have mercy on your soul.” Wilde turned smartly on his heel. As he was leaving, he turned back to add, “Another hunt begins tomorrow. I’m planning to offer bonus prizes to the hunters who bag the rest of your team. Now, if you’ll please excuse me...”

  The heavy door swung shut with finality, sealing Max in the cell with Mr. Shackle.

  21

  “Shackle, eh?” Max asked the torturer. “Is that really your name?”

  Amusement twinkled in eyepatch’s lone blue eye. “It is.”

  “How appropriate.”

  Shackle exposed brown teeth in what passed for a grin. “Again, it is.”

  Max appraised him closely for the first time. He wasn’t much to look at—around fifty years old, sinewy and yet slightly built, a faded tattoo of something on one of his forearms.

  Doesn’t matter. You’re in the chair and he isn’t.

  “Mr. Wilde tells me you were in the CIA,” Shackle said. “I can’t help but wonder how long it’ll take you to crack.”

  “For an amateur like you, sometime around Judgment Day.”

  “I see.” He stared at Max with his one blue eye, expression neutral. “You government sods think you know all the tricks. Well, I went to another school down in South London, breakin’ Mooslims and other shit-colored people tryin’ to muscle in on me uncle’s territory.”

  Max yawned. “Wake me up when you get to the interesting part.”

  An instant later the smoldering coal of the cigar hovered less than an inch from Max’s left eye, so close he could feel the heat starting to scorch his eyeball.

  “Feeling interested yet? I can fuck you up right and not even touch you.” He pulled away the cigar, which smelled like the bilge on a shrimp boat, and set it on the edge of the instrument cart. “You’re gonna break, mate, so spare me all the bother and just tell us who you work for.”

  “We both know it’s not that easy.”

  Shackle shrugged. “Speak for yourself, man. I got no fucking problem either way.” He grabbed the small hammer and advanced on Max. “With all due respect to Mr. Wilde’s genius, I find this to be the better spot.” He brought the hammer down and struck at the end of the collar bone, right at the junction with the shoulder.

  Max twitched as a jolt of neural electricity shot down his left arm once, twice, three times as Shackle pummeled the point of bone with the hammer. He thrashed violently, trying to throw off the torturer’s aim, his shoulders aching from the blows and the strain against his bonds.

  Done with the left side, Shackle repeated the process on the right with similar results.

  “Look at you squirm.” Shackle chuckled. “Some CIA badass. You wouldn’t last ten minutes in me old neighborhood.” After this assault, Shackle turned toward the cart as if finished; then he whirled around and stomped down a heavy boot—probably worn just for that purpose—atop Max’s right foot.

  He couldn’t help but yelp, as much from surprise as intense pain.

  “You sing like a dockside poofter with a cock up his arse. Pathetic, but it’s what I expected. Every fucking lummox like you thinks he’s indestructible... ’til they meet me, of course.”

  “If you’re so fucking tough, then let’s go, knife to knife.”

  Shackle grinned broadly and spat a machinegun laugh. “Oh, mate, you have no idea how I’d slice you to ribbons. But I can’t do it! You can’t talk if you’re dead, right? Now how’s about giving old Shackle the dope on your employer, what say?”

  Max spat, struck Shackle on the chin. “That’s the dope, old boy.”

  Shackle wiped his chin with the back of his hand. His brown smile had vanished. “All fine with me. You’re still g
onna talk... but now I wanna hear you scream first.” He picked up the cigar from the cart and puffed until the tip burned a glowing, brilliant white. After blowing out a cloud of smoke he said, “Fucking criminal, wasting a good smoke on the likes of you.” He advanced a step, two, then paused before Max for one final puff. “But that’s that.” Slowly he reached out, his lone eye gleaming with rapturous pleasure, the blue orb never leaving Max’s face.

  The cigar’s ember touched down on Max’s right nipple. He flinched so violently at the contact that he nearly upset the chair. Apparently done fucking around, Shackle pressed down hard on the cigar and ground it in, his wish granted when Max screamed in agony. Bits of burning tobacco showered Max’s torso as he thrashed about, his body involuntarily trying to escape what couldn’t be run from.

  After a time, as Max sat quivering and sweating in the chair, heart racing, Shackle said, “That could have been your eye, you know. But I’m feeling—what’s the word?—benevolent. I’m feeling benevolent today. So one last chance before the point of no return, eh? Give me a name.”

  “Go bugger your mum,” Max gasped.

  “Clever. But you’re not so funny as Mr. Wilde thinks.” He grabbed a pair of pliers from the cart. “So, you shoot righty or lefty?”

  Fuck, not this... “Right.”

  Shackle probed Max’s countenance with his all-noticing eye. “You keep a neutral face, I’ll give you that. Left, then.” He circled around Max and knelt behind the chair.

  Fooled him, somehow.

  Not that it mattered; Max expected Shackle would break both of his trigger fingers. But he started with the left, wasted no time fitting the pliers around the uppermost knuckle on the index finger.

  Max, who had broken knuckles on many a man in the chair, found the pain bearable compared to the cigar burn. He nevertheless yelled for Shackle’s benefit.

  “By ginger, would you look at that!” said Shackle from behind. “Fuck all this!” He stood and returned the pliers to the cart, trading them for a hooked probe that resembled a dentist’s tooth-cleaning pick. Moving again to Max’s rear, Shackle ripped the dressing off the shrapnel wound on Max’s neck, then chortled his approval. “This time I won’t even ask. You’ll just tell me, mark my words.”