Milieu Dawn

by Malcolm Franks

Hank Scurrelli stormed across to Matt and sneered into the Englishman’s face.

  “Do you have it all?” he snapped to Catherine.

  She shook her head.

  “Copies are poised for distribution.”

  “Hello Hank,” Matt smirked. “I thought you’d retired to the country.”

  His attempt at humour was short lived. The American drew back his hand and brought it crashing against Matt’s jaw, the ring on Scurrelli’s finger puncturing the skin around the lips. The force of the blow toppled Matt out of the chair, knocking him to the floor. Dazed by the assault, Matt tried to focus his eyes. He noticed Scurrelli nod to the man on his left.

  Handcuffs snapped onto Matt’s wrists. A thin wire or rope, he wasn’t sure, was knotted around the cuffs. The remainder of the line looped over an exposed wooden beam, running the full length of the ceiling. This too was tied into place. Two of the new group hauled at the line. Matt felt the handcuffs dig into his wrists and then his body jerked awkwardly along the floor. Another violent tug of the wire and Matt’s arms were pulled above his head. Slowly, inexorably, he was lifted up from the wooden floor.

  Once his feet dangled in the air the tugging stopped. Hands ripped the shirt from his body. Plastic sheeting was pushed underneath. He could feel two circular pads being attached to the small of his back. They felt wet.

  Matt looked down upon the group from his newly elevated position. Already the pressure to his wrists and shoulders was immense. His head sank forward. Were they expecting him to groan or make some sort of submissive noise; they could go to hell.

  The first surge of electrical current was unexpected. Matt’s mouth twisted awkwardly as he ground the two layers of his teeth together. His body convulsed in shock. A second wave speared into the muscles. This one was longer, more intense.

  Scurrelli neared and held out an arm. Something was placed urgently into his right hand. He stepped back. Matt saw the arm swing round from behind. The impact of the barbed cane-like object took a while to register. It was only when it had come to rest back at Scurrelli’s side he noticed the sharp edged shapes packed unequally along its length. Fresh blood dripped from each one. Pain announced its arrival. Numbing at first it quickly morphed into spears of excruciating agony. He hoped his face wouldn’t reveal the depth of pain inflicted.

  Scurrelli drew back his arm and released the instrument of torture once more. The searing pain was instant. Matt could feel blood weeping openly from jagged wounds to his torso. Scurrelli neared again. He peered at Matt with a searching look, apparently curious at the ongoing silence from his captive.

  “That’s what it is,” he said. “Something about you Durham always bugged me. I’ve never been able to work it out, until now. You’re one of life’s fucking heroes, aren’t you? One of those people who get it into their heads they’re right and everyone else on the planet is wrong.”

  Matt didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

  “You know the problem with heroes, Durham? They never do exactly what they’re fucking told. Give a normal man an instruction and he’ll follow it to the letter. Tell a self-righteous hero to do something and he fucking ignores you.”

  The pain was unbearable, too much for Matt to attempt a response. He looked around the room. Cole stood at the door, straight-faced. Catherine was tapping her fingers agitatedly against a keyboard.

  “There’s something else I’ve discovered about heroes over the years. They don’t have any friends. Not a single, goddamn one. You don’t have any friends do you, Durham? That nurse, the one in Victoria; Jenna Douglas or something, she doesn’t like you much.”

  The vitriol continued to spit out from Scurrelli’s lips, urged on by the blackest of hate-filled eyes. Matt realised there was more bile to come.

  “Cole can tell you all about Jenna Douglas. Isn’t that right, Will? She’s turning out to be a real carnal athlete, adventurous too. The woman is goddamn insatiable. Always wanted to do her, didn’t you Durham? Be the first to get inside. Well you’re too late. She’s been done. She’s being done. Guys are queuing round the block waiting to do her. I’ll bet if someone asked her about you today she wouldn’t even be able to remember your fucking name. She’s having too good a fucking time.”

  Matt fought to suppress the aches pulsating throughout his body. He tried to tell his mind to ignore the pain, to focus on summoning up one last surge of energy.

  “And the Cain bitch?” hissed Scurrelli. “When we told her you were dead she never blinked, not once. Why would she? She’s getting married after all, to a normal guy. Just goes to prove my point. Nobody likes you Durham. Nobody wants you in their world.”

  Matt could feel energy returning.

  “So why were you resisting? Nobody wants to be saved by you, Durham. No-one’s going to be eternally grateful to a piece of shit like you.”

  Scurrelli’s glare burned into the eyes of his helpless victim, the enjoyment in his face clear for all to see. The American had lived for this moment.

  “Go to the movies, Durham?” jeered the triumphant Scurrelli. “Hollywood would have you believe heroes resist torture for days, even weeks. The reality is different, because we know what to do. We know what gets results, and fast.”

  The American drew back his arm, ready to thrash at him once more. Matt gripped at the wire around the cuffs and drew his body up. Raising his legs, he circled them round the neck of the American. All he needed was to twist his body.

  Then he felt the surge of an electric shock and angry pain seared into his frame. Matt tried to ignore the burning sensation, tried to get his limbs to move in unison with the thought processes in his mind. Another surge ran through him. Muscles tensed then involuntarily relaxed, and his mind went into freefall. As his legs fell away he felt the bones of his body jar to the impact of falling back into mid-air suspension.

  The American vented his rage with two violent lashings of the barbed cane against Matt’s bare torso. It was too much, a cry of pain escaped from Matt’s mouth at each impact. Where there was once a dribble of blood from the opened gashes now felt like a flood.

  “Skin the bastard!” yelled Scurrelli. “Skin him slow until he talks.”

  The heavy set man in front produced a large blade. He held the gleaming steel in the air so Matt’s weakening eyes could see what was coming. A cold sharpness touched to the flesh of his bare torso.

  Matt looked down upon Vogel and Scurrelli, the two faces of evil, and prayed he wouldn’t scream too much.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Surrender