Azaleas Don't Bloom Here

by Frank Klus

  When he finished with the soft one, he hung that one up and grabbed the other one. This one was made of a hard polymer. He swung it horizontally, striking Eugene in the stomach several times. Eugene wasn’t sure how much he screamed, but when he tried to speak he could barely utter a sound. Tears streamed down his bloodied and purplish face.

  After Hurd finished his punishment, Dr. Sistrunk emerged from the hallway. He was no longer smiling, and wore a crooked frown. He was a little man, about five feet-six, skinny, and sometimes had glasses on and sometimes not.

  “That was a very bad thing you just did,” he lectured. “What did you hope to accomplish, Mr. Sulke? You could never have gotten past Hurd; and even if you did, you’d never make it past the upstairs guard. What did you get for your troubles? You got punished, Mr. Sulke.”

  “I’m sorry…I’m sorry, doctor,” Eugene uttered in a raspy voice he didn’t recognize as his own.

  Sistrunk’s frown was gone now and he put on a haughty look. “Eugene, I’ve treated many men. I assure you, there is nothing that you can do to avoid treatment. I’ve treated soldiers, politicians, journalists, and ordinary people such as yourself. I even treated a Blue Squad soldier. He was a tough one. He was angry, vicious, and stubborn. He would sit right in that chair you’re sitting in now and spit in my face. Of course he would be punished, but he’d take it like it never bothered him. This went on for a week. Oh, I tell you, Eugene, he was full of threats, and the look he gave the guards…it was like he wanted to kill them, but of course, he couldn’t.

  “By the second week he was a beaten man. He still refused to answer questions, and when he could muster up the strength, he’d spit at me; but he was beaten, and he knew it. Once he began cooperating, the punishment would cease. He’d get regular meals and water, and eventually he was cured.”

  Eugene tried to muster the strength to speak. “What am I being treated for?”

  Sistrunk looked surprised, and then his mien turned to understanding. His crooked smile was back. “You don’t fit in, Eugene. Your thoughts are scattered. You don’t understand the world around you. You think life is unfair; hostile. You are afraid of your government. You don’t believe the Constitution works anymore. You think the courts are against you. You think there are malevolent—”

  “No, that’s not it—”

  “DON’T TALK BACK TO ME.”

  Hurd struck him in the face with an open hand, and then he grabbed the hard club, whacking him in the mid-section again. “You don’t criticize the doctor—understand, shithead?”

  All Eugene could utter was a pathetic, “I’m sorry, doctor.”

  “That’s all right, Eugene. I understand. You understand too, don’t you Mr. Hurd?”

  “Yes, doctor. Eugene’s just like the rest of them when they first get here: angry, resentful, and snotty.”

  “Now that we understand each other better, let’s go on with Professor Harold Zinney. Shall we begin with how you met him?”

  “Please doctor, my stomach hurts a lot. I think I might have a broken rib.”

  Sistrunk motioned for the nurse, who was sitting at the utility table. She opened up the display cabinet and reached in for a bottle of something. She gave Eugene what appeared to be aspirin with a glass of water. Then he repeated his question to Eugene.

  Eugene began answering all the doctor’s questions, wincing through the pain, and then asked for some water. Hurd didn’t take the straps off, but squirted bottled water in Eugene’s mouth. He spit it up, and Hurd and the doctor began laughing.

  “Eugene,” Hurd said, “you told me you were thirsty, but look, Doc—he just spits it all out. Well, I guess you weren’t so thirsty, after all.”

  Hurd removed the bottle, but Eugene protested. “Please! It’s too much. Please take the straps off me.”

  “If I let you out of your chair, will you promise to behave yourself, Eugene?” the doctor said.

  “Yes, I promise, doctor.”

  Eugene was released and taken to the utility table, where he was told to sit down. A few minutes later, the nurse brought him some soup and bottled water. Eugene drank down the water at once and asked for more. Then he ate the soup. It was mostly chicken broth; not very filling.

  After ten minutes Eugene was brought back to his chair. Hurd started to strap him in, but Sistrunk stopped him.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Hurd.”

  The nurse brought him another bottle of water and handed it to Eugene, who continued to quench his enormous thirst.

  The interrogation continued but Eugene seemed to drift in and out of consciousness. He couldn’t concentrate well, and when he didn’t answer right away Hurd would hit him again. Eugene found himself gibbering away so as to avoid the punishment.

  Eugene prattled on until he noticed there was no one around. He looked up at the clock. It was half past eight. He figured he must have passed out because the last time he noticed the time it was about 6:30. Eugene stopped talking, and the next time he looked at the clock it was 11:45. He also noticed he was strapped to the chair again. He wasn’t sure for how long, but he realized he must have passed out again.

  Doctor Sistrunk came back and called for Hurd. The guard came back down the steps and resumed his position next to Eugene. Then the recorder, or whatever he was, resumed his position to the right of him.

  “Now, Eugene, please try to stay awake.”

  “Okay, doctor.”

  The interrogation continued, as did the occasional beatings. Eugene then felt the sting of a needle, and saw the nurse just finishing an inoculation. Eugene looked at the clock. It was now a little after three. Eugene didn’t know if it was morning or afternoon.

  “The nurse gave you some ephedrine. It will help you stay awake and focus on my questions.”

  “Please, doctor. I don’t want to cause trouble, but how much longer will this go on?”

  “It will go on for as long as it takes, Mr. Sulke,” the doctor said.

  At 4:30 Doctor Sistrunk concluded this phase of the interrogation. “Well done, Eugene. You can get some rest now.”

  Hurd released the straps and escorted Eugene into the little room he wondered about. It was dark and had no furniture. It appeared to be an empty utility closet, about four by five, with only a cement floor to sleep on. Eugene was locked in.

  There wasn’t enough room to fully lie in it. His pants were wet with urine, and he drifted in and out of consciousness. When awake, he reflected on all that happened. What’s going on? I remembered being home when the doorbell rang. It was Dennis and Teresa. Teresa was holding a plate of brownies, and Dennis had a case of beer. If I wasn’t going to go to them, they’d invite themselves over to my house.

  I was sitting on the couch and drinking some of the beer when I felt tired. That was it until I woke up strapped to that chair. They kidnapped me! They kidnapped me! I don’t understand. They’re my friends. Was Cassandra right, after all? Am I fully in that sling she talked about? Why? Why is this happening to me? What do they want me to do? Treated for what? What is this place? Then he fell asleep.

  Eugene slept fitfully in his lifeless room until the overhead light came on. It was harsh and brutal, like the entire room. Hurd opened the door and ordered his prisoner out. Eugene moved slowly. His back and stomach hurt, and his left arm was asleep. His face was a mixture of red, black, and blue. Pus formed around his left eye.

  “Come on, come on, Sulke. The doctor doesn’t have all day.”

  Hurd reached in and grabbed Eugene, who was still semi-lying on the cold cement floor. He yanked him to his feet, and dragged him to the chair. The chair waited for him, baring its ferocity, yawning out to reach him, and capturing the scared man in its infernal embrace.

  “Man, you stink,” Hurd said. “What’d you do, piss yourself?”

  “Good morning, Eugene,” Sistrunk said. “I trust you slept well.”

  “Oh, like a baby. That cement floor was so comfortable, doc. How’d you do it?”


  Hurd reached for the soft truncheon and hit Gene over the head with it. “Is this any way to talk to the doctor, Sulke?” he said to him, nose to nose.

  Eugene wasn’t tied down, so he pushed Hurd back and stood up to confront Dr. Sistrunk. “How am I supposed to sleep in that cage?” His voice was harsh and angry.

  Hurd was about to clobber him again, but Sistrunk motioned for Hurd to leave him alone. He stared at Eugene again with that crooked absurdist smile. “Progress and comfort go hand in hand.”

  He turned to Hurd. “Why don’t you have Alisha bring Eugene some breakfast?”

  “Yes, doctor.” Hurd motioned to the nurse who was sitting at the utility table.

  “Now, Eugene, why don’t you sit over at the table? I think we have some nice bacon and eggs for you; maybe a little orange juice as well. You like that, don’t you?”

  Hurd grabbed his arm by the shoulder and led him to the table. Eugene was quieted, but his expression reflected anger. He flashed a look of fury at Hurd. As Eugene sat down and waited for his breakfast he continued to stare at Hurd; a steely look, filled with venom. Hurd paid no attention to him; standing at parade rest and facing away from him.

  Alisha brought Eugene his breakfast, but Eugene continued to stare at Hurd. The smell of bacon and eggs to a desperately hungry man was enough to soften his countenance, however, as he now dove into his breakfast. No sooner finished, Hurd brought him back to the interrogation chair. He wasn’t strapped down, and the interrogation continued as the questions turned to his wife.

  “When did you meet her?”

  “How did you meet?”

  “What are her parents like?”

  Then the questions turned to his parents and brother.

  “What do they believe in?”

  “How do you get along with your brother?”

  “Do you argue?”

  Eugene’s answers were short, crisp, and curt. His voice was raw and angry, but controlled. The dour man pecked away at his machine.

  The nurse tended to Eugene’s face while the staccato questions were fired, and then she put an ointment over the discoloration. Hour after hour, the doc fired away his relentless questions until Eugene lost consciousness. When he awoke, Sistrunk resumed the interrogation.

  “What’s your boss like?”

  “Tell me about your co-workers.”

  “What do they believe in?”

  “How well do you get along with them?”

  “Who are your friends?”

  “What are they like?”

  “How did you come to know them?”

  “What do they believe in?”

  “What do you argue about?”

  Eugene continued to answer the questions directly, offering only enough information to satisfy Sistrunk. Sick and tired of the inexorable, prying questions, he finally mustered up the nerve to ask the doctor a question.

  “Excuse me, doctor, but why do you want to know all this?”

  Hurd was about to clobber him again, but Sistrunk gestured to him, and Hurd maintained his position.

  “These questions are necessary in helping you with your treatment.”

  “What treatment?”

  “You will know when it starts.”

  “When can I go home?”

  “When you are cured, Eugene,” Sistrunk said, although his voice betrayed a frustration with the questions.

  Hour after hour, the questions spurted out, and hour after hour, the old man typed away. Punctuated by brief breaks when he’d be given water and a brief meal, the questions were relentless, detailed, and forced Eugene to search his memory for the answers. Sistrunk never permitted vague answers, forcing Eugene to dig for the facts, or make them up, if necessary. When he’d start to nod off, Alisha would give him another shot of ephedrine.

  Without realizing it, Eugene found himself in the closet again. He was dazed, confused, and in great pain. Rage gathered within him as he reached down within himself, and he let out a scream that could wake the dead.

  Chapter 11:

  Operation Rescue

  “Chad, Wrenn here.”

  “What do you got for me?” Armstrong asked.

  Ray brought Chad Armstrong and his sharpshooters in to rescue Eugene from that terrible place. He sent one of his men to Hell House to try and determine if Eugene was there and stake out the place. Armstrong was an ex-Blue, tall and muscular, with blonde short-cropped hair and blue eyes. He was also smart and a first-rate military planner. Ray depended on him and his men to get Eugene out of Hell House.

  “I’m here at the House. Plenty of security—hidden; camouflaged.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Think I’ll go for a lit—”

  There was a noise. Armstrong could hear a muffled noise at a distance. “Wrenn! Are you there?”

  There was no answer.

  “Wrenn, goddamn it, don’t fuck with me.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” a mysterious voice on the phone said. Armstrong hung up. He thought a moment, and then called another team member.

  “Foote, I lost Wrenn. I think he’s been captured. Get down to Hell House and see if you can find him. Take Paulie with you. Let me know what’s going on.”

  Foote went down to Hell House and found Wrenn’s car, but not Wrenn. There was the look of a struggle. Blood was in the car, and drops trailed out of it. It was still fresh.

  “I can’t believe he could be ambushed,” Paulie said. “He’s usually doing the ambushing.”

  Foote was busy staring at the House. He seemed to be in a trance. “Foote, what about Wrenn?”

  Foote didn’t answer. Terry Foote was a tall stoic soldier who didn’t go in for trivialities. He doggedly stuck to the matter at hand as he looked left of the house, right of the house; at one window, and then at another.

  “This place is crawling with security,” Foote finally responded.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  Foote turned around and stared across the street. He looked like he was taking a panoramic picture of the neighborhood. He just moved with super slow motion from left to right, and then right to left.

  Paulie looked at the same thing Foote was looking at, and furrowed his brow. “I don’t see anything.”

  Foote paid no attention to Paulie at first, as he completed his search. Finally, he turned to him. “There are at least a dozen security people watching us.”

  Then he turned toward the truck nearby. “Come on out of there, Wrenn.”

  Wrenn came crawling out from under the chassis with a big grin on his face. An impish character that too often masqueraded his inner toughness, Paulie just stared at him, and then at Foote. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to notice me.”

  “And what about all these security people?” Paulie asked.

  “It’s a wonder you always hit your target when you can’t even see anything,” Foote said. Paulie made a face.

  Wrenn laughed. “See that tree to the left of the house?”

  Paulie searched for a minute. “I see two trees.”

  “The one closest to the house,” Wrenn said.

  “Okay, so?”

  “Jeez, Paulie,” Foote said. “Look about two-thirds of the way up on the right side of the tree.”

  “I think I see something moving, but I’m not sure.”

  “There’s a guy in that tree. He’s camouflaged, but you can see a slight change of color where he is,” Wrenn said.

  “Look at the roof,” Foote said. “Do you see a couple of grey rectangular objects—one each on the left and right sides?”

  Paulie stared at it. “Sure. You aren’t going to tell me those are men?”

  Wrenn just gave Paulie a funny look. Wrenn was smaller than Foote, with a wiry frame and an infectious smile. “You see, we’re trained to find the bad guy’s hiding places. That’s the secret. You anticipate where the hiding places are, and you look for the men—”

  “And what to see,” Foote said. “Look at the windows of the house
. They’re good for daytime spying. The daylight reflects off the window so you can’t see inside, but look closely at the windows. If someone is there you can spot a slight shadow moving.”

  “And don’t look directly at it,” Wrenn said. “You see more with your peripheral vision.”

  “I see more? How?”

  “It’s not clarity that’s always important—it’s motion,” Foote said. “You can see motion more clearly out of the corner of your eye than when you’re looking straight at something. If you look straight at the window, you can’t see anything. Look to the left or the right of it, and, if someone is there, you can detect their motion.”

  “That’s how we saw the camouflaged men,” Wrenn said. “A slight motion—a move of the hand, the head, anything, and that’s when you know they’re there.”

  “Okay, I guess I understand, but what I don’t get is how did you know Wrenn was under that truck?”

  “I just followed the blood trail. What I don’t know are the details. Right, Jack?”

  Wrenn was hysterical with laughter. He was the jokester of the group. “You should have seen me in action. It was a thing of beauty. I tell yah, boys. It was—”

  “Cut the shit, Wrenn. How did you get ambushed anyway?”

  “I was on the phone. I can’t concentrate when I’m on the phone. I had the driver side window down so I could see better. That’s where the guy ambushed me. He hid in my blind spot, and then came through the open window with a rope. He had it around my neck before I could react. I realized I was losing consciousness, so I went limp.”

  “Wrenn can look like a dead man better than any dead man I’ve seen,” Foote said.

  “Believe it, boy—dead eye and all, with just the right grunting. It fooled ole soldier boy. He yanked me out of the car and got his dig in with Chad. Then I slit his throat. Look at this car! Do you know how hard it is to clean that blood? It’s going to take hours.”

  “Where is the body?” Paulie asked.

  “With me, under the truck.”

  “One thing I still don’t understand, you guys, is…well, aren’t we in danger standing out here talking?”