Blackout

by Chris Ryan

  Josh willed himself to stay awake, to hold on to the image. It faded, clouding before his eyes^He went under, blackness overwhelming him. Then, briefly, he was awake again. Someone was lifting him up, one man taking his legs, another his shoulders. The bikers. Where the hell are they taking me?

  As his body swayed from side to side, consciousness started to fade and Josh could feel himself going under again. Another image flashed in front of his eyes. This time it was

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  Luke. Running. Then the boy was turning around, shouting something. What was it? 'Touch,' realised Josh. He was shouting 'Touch,' plus some other words that were indistinct. Touch, thought Josh, the word rattling through his mind. What the hell did he want me to touch?

  The image faded as quickly as it had arisen, and suddenly Josh could see nothing. He opened his eyes, but the vision had gone. He could see only the darkness. Is this what it's like when you die? he wondered. If I've been captured, that might be the best I can hope for.

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  FIFTEEN

  Thursday, June 11th. Noon.

  Where's the cyanide pill? thought Josh.

  Where's the sodding cyanide pill?

  He closed his eyes, then opened them again, hoping against hope that maybe it was just a dream. As he pulled his eyelids slowly open, it took him a few minutes to adjust to the darkness of his surroundings. He was lying -on a rough dirt floor, his hands bound tightly behind his back and his feet strapped together. A stake had been driven into the ground and the ropes wrapped around his legs had been tied to it, making it impossible for him to wriggle forward more than a yard. The room measured ten feet square, and looked to have been dug out of some kind of dried mud: a hole, driven straight down into the ground. Looking up, he could see that it was covered by some thick sheets of metal. Not a glimmer of light was breaking through. Josh could hardly even see his own body in the darkness.

  It was impossible to tell what time of day it was. His watch had been taken from his wrist.

  It could by any time of day, any day of the week.

  What happened yesterday? Josh asked himself. What the hell happened?

  A sudden jolt of cold fear ran down his spine. Christ, not more memory loss.

  But slowly, in his mind, he started to reassemble the events of the last twenty hours. He had been with Kate, he remem

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  bered that. They had been driving, on their way to meet O'Brien and Morant. They had been attacked. The bikers had been there in force: at least seven of them, maybe more in reserve. It had been impossible to run, and they'd had no weapons with which to fight. The last thing he remembered was Kate running for her life across the open scrubland, while the bikers punched him unconscious.

  / don't even know if she is alive or dead. I don't even know if I'm going to live much longer.

  Josh tried to stretch his limbs. Assess the state of the damage you've taken, he decided. His neck hurt badly. The bandage on his gunshot wound had been pulled off, and the punches he'd taken to the side of his head had broken the skin open again. It had been bleeding, he could tell, and some dirt might have got in there, but the flow of blood had staunched itself while he'd been unconscious, and some fresh scabs had started to form. The nerves in his leg wound were throbbing with agony, as if his leg was being drilled open. And his ribs were aching from the fall from the car and-the beating he'd taken from the bikers: none of them seemed to be broken, but the muscles were strained and they ached every time he moved.

  So far they haven't roughed me up much at all. Just brought me back and tossed me in this hole. Concentrate, he told himself. Don't give in to despair. So long as you are alive you can pull through this.

  His bladder was aching. Josh was desperate for a piss, but it was impossible to stand or even squat. 'Hey,' he shouted, looking up. 'Who's there?'

  His voice was hoarse, and rasping. Something was hurting the back of his throat as he tried to speak but he couldn't identify what: so many different types of pain were already assaulting him that it was hard to tell them apart.

  'Who's bloody there?' he shouted again, louder this time.

  A chink of light opened in the space above him. Josh's

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  stare shot up to track the movement. A ray of fierce sunshine burst through, sending a narrow shaft of light down into Josh's face. He tracked the movement of the covering as it slid open. A rope ladder dropped down into the hole, then Josh could see a man starting to climb down into the pit. His boots came into view first, then his black jeans, then his leather jacket, his black beard and his thick ponytail. Josh recognised him at once. Flatner.

  'How you doing today, pretty boy?' Flatner said, looking down.

  Josh struggled to sit up, but the tight leash made it impossible: the best he could manage was to raise his face a few feet from the ground.

  'I need a piss,' said Josh.

  'And so do I,' said Flatner.

  With deliberate slowness, Flatner unzipped his flies and pulled out his penis. Holding it in his hands, he sprayed Josh with his urine. The liquid felt warm as it splashed against the cloth of Josh's jeans and T-shirt. The smell made Josh cough in disgust. His own bladder could contain itself no longer: his own urine started running down the side of his leg, forming a noxious puddle on the ground.

  'Talk to me, man, talk to me,' said Flatner roughly. 'You'll save yourself a lot of pain.'

  'Fuck off,'Josh spat.

  Josh rested his head back on the ground. The air inside the hole was already thirty or thirty-five degrees, and the sunlight now beaming in was majdng it even hotter. I'm going to take a beating, he told himself. I just have to try and survive it as best I can.

  'You can make this easy for yourself, or you can make it hard,' said Flatner.

  Josh looked up, making eye contact with Flatner for the first time. His expression was as hard as rock: solid and unyielding. 'What do you want?' he asked.

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  'The kid, Josh,' said Flatner. 'I want to know where the kid is.'

  'Which kid?'

  Flatner knelt down, leaning close into Josh's face, so close that Josh could smell his sour breath. 'A word of advice, man,' he said. 'Don't try to be funny and don't try to be clever. You know which fucking kid.'

  'Luke?'

  Flatner nodded just once.

  'I don't know'

  The punch was delivered to his ribcage. Flatner s fist collided with the side of Josh's chest, sending a dull pain though his body. That was just a friendly warning, Josh warned himself. The man can deliver afar more violent blow than that.

  'I'll ask you again,' said Flatner. 'Where's the fucking kid?'

  'I don't know,'Josh repeated.

  The punch was harder this time, delivered to the same point on his ribcage. The wind emptied out of his gut, and he could feel his skin turning numb. 'I don't know,' he said again.

  He could see Flatner starting to draw his fist back, readying the next blow. 'No, listen,' said Josh, a ragged edge creeping into his voice. 'I really don't know.'

  Flat's fist was poised to crash down against Josh's ribcage. 'Don't know?'

  'I lost my memory,' said Josh.

  Flatner smiled, revealing a huge set of jagged teeth. His eyes looked down at Josh, dark and morose. 'Don't try to get smart with me, pretty boy'

  'It's true,' snapped Josh. 'I was shot in the neck, and the leg. My memory's gone to pieces. Even if I did know where the hell Luke was once, I sure as hell don't know any more.'

  From his back pocket, Flatner pulled out a page torn from a newspaper. 'Recognise this?'

  Josh shook his head.

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  'It's the New York fucking Times, man. Paper of record, right?'

  Josh remained silent.

  'And it has a report here about what it calls The Four Cities Attack. Couple of days ago the power gets turned off in four different cities around the United States. Just like The Three Ci
ties Attack a couple of months ago. Want me to read you what it says?'

  Flatner paused for breath, not looking to Josh for a response.

  'It says this: "The timing of the attacks has been described as simultaneous, but according to power-industry experts the blackouts started in different cities at slightly different local times. In Jamestown, the power went down at 9.01.00; in Orlando at 9.01.15; in Seattle at 9.01.30; and in Harrison at 9.01.45. Each blackout started at precisely fifteen seconds after the last one. But according to power-industry sources that may have just been the result of differences in local systems, and in the length of time it takes for the systems to snut themselves down.'" Flatner put the paper down on the ground at his side. 'What do you think that means?'

  'No bloody idea,' said Josh. 'Like it says, differences in local power systems.'

  'You think so? Then maybe you're as fucking dumb as you look. Four cities. Jamestown, Orlando, Seattle and Harrison. That mean anything to you?'

  Josh shook his head.

  'You're a dumb son of a bitch. J-O-S-H. It spells fucking Josh. The kid shut down the po^er in those four cities deliberately, and he spaced out the attacks because he knew you were so fucking stupid you might have trouble figuring it out for yourself. J-O-S-H. Spells Josh.'

  Flatner raised his fist as if he was about to launch another punch. Instinctively, Josh could feel himself flinching.'Now are you still going to tell me you don't know where he is?'

  The letters were spinning through Josh's mind. J-O-SH,

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  he repeated to himself. Luke is sending me a message, he has to be. But what the hell is he trying to say?

  'I don't know,' mumbled Josh.

  The punch landed on his ribcage again, sending vibrations of pain rippling up into his chest. Josh clamped his teeth together, trying not to scream out in pain. The side of his chest was numb, and even though he couldn't see it he could sense the flesh and muscle swelling under the impact of the blows.

  'Now tell me where the fuck he is,' roared Flatner.

  'I don't know.'

  'Tell me, you son of a bitch.'

  'I don't know.'

  Flatner s arm was raised high, ready to strike again. 'Tell me.'

  'I don't bloody know.'

  'Tell me!'

  'I don't know'

  Flatner struck once, then again, both times hitting Josh in the same section of his ribcage. Josh screamed with pain. Each blow was worse than the last one: the flesh was softened, already wounded, and every nerve was set alight each time Flatner thumped him.

  'I don't even know who I bloody am,' screamed Josh.

  Flatner reached for his shoulder, yanking Josh forwards so that he was lying with his face at Flatner's feet. 'Your name is Josh Harding,' he said. 'You are a British soldier, working undercover in the United States. You were sent here just after the juice got turned off in London. Your mission was to find out what happened and to stop it happening again.'

  Flatner drew himself up, standing above Josh, his thick muscles bulging as he crossed his forearms. 'But you know what, pretty boy? Right now, you don't belong to the British fucking army. You don't belong to that bitch you've been going around with. You don't even belong to yourself. And

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  unless you start thinking about how to get your mouth working again, you're just going to be fertiliser for a fucking cactus.'

  He turned around, starting to climb the rope ladder up out of the hole. Josh watched as he slowly slid the metal covers back into place. Just as he was finishing, Flatner stuck his head down, blocking out what remained of the light. 'I want you to lie here in the dirt, and I want you to think of the worst thing that can possibly happen to a man,' he growled. 'And I want you to know that it's going to happen to you soon if you don't tell me where the fucking kid is.'

  Josh lay silently. He turned onto his side, trying to take the pressure off his bruised ribs. Harding, he thought to himself. Flatner said that my name is Josh Harding. Josh racked his brains, trying to see if the surname could summon up any more memories.

  If I can't think of anything to tell him, I'm going to take a terrible beating.

  And now, in the darkness, Josh could at last feel a memory stirring within him. He was sitting in a concrete room. A man was standing in front of a group of soldiers, lecturing them, his expression serious. Josh couldn't remember the names of any of the men who sat there alongside him, but he could hear the words as clearly as if they were playing on a radio right next to him. The man in front was telling them how any member of the special forces had to expect to be captured at least once in his career. And if he was taken prisoner, he had to expect Jp be tortured. 'We don't do the nice Geneva Convention wars,' he was saying. 'We go into the places where we aren't meant to be and we do the rough stuff. We get captured, we expect to get slapped around a little. Goes with the territory. You want to dish it out, you have to learn how to take it as well. That's what I'm here for. To teach you how to take it.'

  The man went on to outline a few simple techniques for

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  surviving torture. Josh struggled to keep the memory intact, trying to make sure that he remembered each word exactly as it was spoken. This could mean the difference between life and death.

  You have to be physically fit, the man was telling them. That goes without saying. But you have to be mentally fit as well. You have to know how to stay on level terms with your tormentor.

  There were five lessons that had been drilled into them. You have to have a 'mental home base': a mental safe house, into which you could retreat to protect yourself against the inevitable fits of depression and despair. You need a 'Focus Word', either a prayer or a poem that you can latch on to, to help get you through the day. You need to use visualisation to help you cope with the pain, turning the pain into an object such as a football that you can kick away.You have to use all your imagination and powers of imagery to try and construct fantasy worlds into which you can escape. And you have to create a 'magic box': a place outside yourself into which you ean pour all your fears, anxieties, and pain.

  At the time, me and the rest of the blokes thought it was just a load of psycho-bollocks. Now I'm not so sure. Now I might need it.

  'You have to want to survive,' their lecturer had concluded, writing the words up on a blackboard. 'You have to know what you are living for and why. That's the only way you can make it through the pain.'

  Josh repeated the w
  You have to want to survive

  You have to want to survive.

  But how can you want to survive, how can you know what you are living for, when you don't even know who you are?

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  SIXTEEN

  Thursday, June 11th. Night.

  The cover slid open, letting a chink of moonlight shine down into the hole. Josh turned onto his side, ignoring the pain still jabbing upwards from his ribs. He could see the ladder being tossed into the pit, and he could see a pair of thick leather boots starting their descent towards him.

  'It's night-time, Josh,' said Flatner, laughing. 'Your nightmare is just starting.'

  Josh kept silent. He had no clear idea what time it was. He knew that torture victims were supposed to try to keep track of the hours and the days as a way of keeping themselves sane, but it had proved impossible: with neither light nor sounds, there had been nothing to mark the passage of the hours. It could be Thursday, Friday, any day.

  'Feeling good?' Flatner asked.

  Josh glanced up. Another pair of boots was clambering down the ladder. Within a few short seconds, another of the bikers was standing at Flatner's side. Josh looked at the man's face, but in the murky light >t was hard to make out any distinguishing features. His hair was matted and black, and his beard grew down more than a foot. He wore shades pulled down over his eyes, and his head was wrapped in a Confederate bandanna. Otherwise, he looked th
e same as all the other bikers Josh had seen walking through the camp.

  Another monster. They have their own species developing

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  here, thought Josh. The missing link between the great apes and the morons.

  'Not in the mood to talk, pretty boy?' said Flatner. 'Then we'll just have to juice you up a little bit.'

  Anticipation was the worst part of the process, Josh realised. For the last few hours, he had been lying in the dark imagining the different types of torture that might be inflicted upon him. The bones in his fingers could be broken one by one. His skin could be burnt. A limb could be amputated every day until he agreed to speak. There could be sexual abuse, or a hundred different forms of mental torture: they might use white noise, water drips, drugs. It was hard to believe there was any cruelty that they would regard as too extreme.

  The same question repeated itself in his head again and again. How much pain do I have to suffer before they believe that I don't know where Luke is?

  'Strap him, Mark,' snapped Flatner.

  The second biker moved across to where Josh was lying and knelt down.- Close up, Josh could get a better view of him. Mark was thin, with the build of an athlete, and looked no more than twenty-five, Josh judged. In his eyes, he had the cold professional glare of a man who took pride in his work. He's done this before, sensed Josh. And he enjoys it.

  If the Waffen-SS was still recruiting, he'd be first in the queue.

  Mark was holding what looked like a thick leather belt in his hand. It was ten inches wide, with thick Velcro straps to help secure it to the body, and with a grey battery case clipped to its back. Mark opened up the belt, threading it around Josh's waist. Using his hands, he tugged at the Velcro, squeezing it into position.

  'Too tight for you?' Mark asked, leering down at Josh. 'Well, hell. I don't give a fuck. A few minutes' time, that's going to be the least of your worries.'