“And we know that you’ve got women and children back at your place”, Rust added.
Suddenly John’s smirk faded, as he contemplated the possibility that Danny had in fact broken during his interrogation, and told them details of the base. John couldn’t exactly blame the boy; he was young, he’d never been trained for such an experience and judging by the scratches and bloodstains littering the table and floor, he’d put up a good fight before finally cracking. Of course, John also knew that such information might have simply been a good guess, so he reserved judgement on his younger companion until he received some better confirmation.
“Now what I’d like to know from you”, Rust continued, “Is where exactly this camp is. I don’t mind if you only know that it’s… west, or south-east, I don’t mind if you just know the city, I just need to know. See, if I know, then two things can happen. The first is that we can send some people over there, they can talk, and we can see if we can’t open up some kind of trading arrangement”, Rust explained, “We’ve got a good thing going with a few other camps, we send them guns, they send us fresh vegetables, it works out real nice”.
John nearly laughed at what he was fairly certain were all lies. Not only did he seriously doubt that the kind of people who would send spies to infiltrate another camp and shoot people in the leg during an otherwise peaceful ambush would also be involved in something as civilised as trading, but he also knew from the way the group’s surplus items were arranged on the basketball court that they more than lacked the organisation to be trading off weapons.
“We did some business with passing traders too”, Rust said, sensing he was losing his audience, “But you know as well as I do that people nowadays can be a little unpredictable, so we had to put a stop to that. Luckily for us though, we deal with enough camps that we’re never low on much of anything, sure is a shame that so many others don’t get to benefit from everything we have though, even if they have to trade something to get it”.
John was almost beginning to feel ill. Not only was Rust’s spiel unbelievable, but the way in which he told it was so rehearsed that it almost looked like a recording. John imagined this was not only the same shtick that had been given to Danny, but it was the same one told to every poor passing soul that got brought in, and perhaps even the genuine recruits, who may in fact be completely brainwashed into believing that whatever was happening here was for a good reason. Suddenly it occurred to John that half of the guards here might actually believe they were doing a good thing, and might have no idea what was going on outside the walls, or even inside them for that matter.
“Anyway, you don’t need me boring you with all the details”, Rust said, “And I don’t much enjoy standing here telling you our history”, he added, before spinning the chair opposite John around and sitting backwards on it, his arms folded and resting on the back of the seat. “So I’ll just cut straight to the chase, do you want to join us in what we’re doing here, or do you want to die?”.
John was shocked. The entire theme of this supposed interrogation – though it had far from been one thus far – and to some extent of their entire imprisonment thus far had been that of a calm, almost welcoming atmosphere. With the exception of Danny, they hadn’t been mistreated whilst inside the walls, they hadn’t been kept waiting long, and had even been allowed to remain together, something that ran contrary to just about every guideline on interrogation there was. Yet now, staring dead into John’s eyes so intently it looked as if he was about to burst a blood vessel, here was the same man responsible for all of the good treatment now threatening John’s life if he wasn’t forthcoming with information, something he claimed would not only save his life, but provide safe passage into the man’s elite crew. Despite his shock at the change of tone however, John’s own tone remained the same, and that was a tone of silence.
“You’re trying my patience a little here”, Rust announced, “See I can sit here all day and do this with you, but my boss, well he’s not too keen on the idea of this taking more than a few minutes”, he continued, before pausing to chuckle at a vision that had just popped into his head. “Hell, he’d be slamming you against the wall, ripping your skin off with a pair of tweezers, breaking you apart from top to bottom in ways that would have you begging for him to stop, telling him whatever he wanted to know”, he explained, leaning forwards slightly more with every word, “He’d have you screaming, crying, pissing yourself like a little kid”, he added, before suddenly sitting back in his chair.
“But see that’s not me, or more specifically, that’s not you”, Rust said.
John found himself confused once more, looking across at the man for some kind of explanation.
“See I think you can tell a lot about a person at a time like this, even if they did speak”, he began to explain, chewing on his lip slightly and making a clicking noise with his mouth, “Right now, I can tell that torturing you would just be a waste of my time. You’re not gonna’ say anything you don’t want to, hell, you might not even say anything at all”, he continued, “That’s why I’m just sitting here, asking you to join us, asking you to be a part of something bigger, asking you to give us a reason to keep you alive”.
John stared back at the man, looking deep into his eyes from across the table.
“Now I’ma take you back to your room, give you some time to think it over while I talk to your other friend”, Rust continued, “But whoever gives in first gets the spot”, he said, standing up out of his chair, moving around to John’s side of the table, and then pulling him up, “So I’d make a decision fast”, he said, before leading John back over to the door.
As he stood there, waiting for the door in front to be opened, there wasn’t an ounce of doubt in John’s mind. He knew full well that the offers and promises weren’t sincere, that the stories were made up, and that there probably wasn’t even a boss above Rust. So John wasted no time thinking over the offer in front, or anything else that he’d had to sit and listen to over the past few minutes. Instead, as the door swung open and both men began the brief walk back to the box, John simply thought about just how on earth they were going to get out of there.
Soon though the now familiar sound of the lock clicking open came into earshot, and the door in front swung slowly open. In front, John gave a quick visual check to ensure everything remained as he had left it, and finally walked forwards – with a firm shove from behind aiding him in the move – into the box, where he once more took up his position sitting with his back against the rear wall.
“You’re next pretty-boy”, Rust announced, looking down at Devon who looked back at the man with a disgusted face that despite remaining utterly silent, spoke a thousand words with ease.
Quickly Rust pulled Devon onto his feet, but before they could begin the short journey down the corridor, the sound of movement filtered into the room, through the open door and confirmed by the shift in stance of the still unnamed larger man a few feet away, something that sent Rust spinning around to face the door.
“Boss”, Rust said in greeting as a figure stomped forcefully through the doorway, stopping just inside the room before surveying the prisoners with his hands on his hips.
“These the new people?”, RP asked, his usual military attire emblazoned with his initials in such a rag tag way that it had clearly been done post-apocalypse.
Rust nodded nervously, combing his hair back with his hand as he did, clearly fearful of how his physically smaller superior perceived him.
RP was a force to be reckoned with on looks alone. The man’s resting face seemed to overflow with anger and hatred, and yet also alluded to an oddly calm demeanour that John was certain meant he rarely lashed out without having a plan in place first. Between his immaculate clothing and his perfect posture, it was clear he was ex-military, a welcome sight in a world where just about anyone could now get their hands on a uniform.
But it was RP’s eyes that fascinated John the most. Scanning around the room, John watched
as he inspected every tiny part of every person there, even his own men, searching out something that might peak his interest or better inform him of the current situation. RP’s gaze seemed to burn into every person in the room, including John, until it eventually rested on Devon, who Rust had just helped onto his feet.
Walking up to Devon, RP didn’t even look into his eyes, but instead proceeded to yank down the zip of the tall man’s jacket and pull from inside it a Beretta M9. Instinctively Devon’s mouth opened, briefly preparing to give an excuse before quickly reminding himself to stay silent. But there was no need for Devon to speak, in fact there was no need for anyone to speak. Instead, RP simply ejected the magazine to confirm it was loaded, reinserted it, cocked back the slide on top of the weapon, pointed it at Danny, who remained seated in the corner of the room, and then fired a single shot clean through the young man’s skull.
Chapter 32: Worst laid plans
“NO!”, John yelled helplessly, pulling against his restraints and leaning forwards as if trying to jump in front of the bullet. He wasn’t sure if he’d reacted before or after the trigger was pulled, though it didn’t really seem to matter, either way there was no chance of him making any real difference. There was nothing he could have done to stop that shot from finding its target, and all the yelling in the world wasn’t going to change that.
“YOU MOTHER FUCKER!”, Devon screamed at the new arrival, looking left to Danny’s body, now lifelessly slumped against the wall with blood pouring from the open wound in the centre of his forehead, “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”, he yelped.
RP turned from his recent bout of target practise to face the slightly louder of the two men, taking note of the wound on the side of his left leg as he walked over to him and shoved him backwards against the wall, before pressing his pistol hard against the patch of blood and ripped fabric on the side of his leg.
“ARGH!”, Devon groaned in pain.
“He died because of you”, RP said in what was somehow both a calm and aggressive tone, “This is your fault”.
Devon stared back at the man, resisting the urge to head butt or spit at him only because of the immense pain he was in from his just barely sealed wound being reopened by the jagged barrel of a pistol.
After a tense standoff. RP eventually stepped back from Devon, allowing the wounded man to collapse to the ground in an odd mix of pain, grief and shock over what had happened over the previous few seconds. Turning instead to face Rust, the military man grabbed him by the collar and yanked him off in the direction of the door, throwing him clean through it and sending him slamming into the wall on the far side. Following him out, RP thrust the door closed behind him – only for it to be promptly locked, presumably by the third man – and then began going to town on his soldier over the incredible failing that had just taken place.
John barely heard the intense yelling going on just a few feet away. He failed to make out the words of a man being told how poorly he’d handled such a simple job, he completely missed the lecture on properly searching a hostage, and he even somehow managed to avoid hearing the cracking sound of a fist on the side of Rust’s face. In fact, over the next thirty or so seconds, John didn’t hear a single one of the ten or so punches that landed on various parts of Rust’s head, beating him close to unconsciousness in a few short but well aimed shots that each had a tremendous amount of force behind them. Instead, John’s attention was solely focused on the boy to his left.
Lying there, crumpled into a pile in the corner of the room, a pool of blood beginning to form around his body now that his shirt and pants had all but soaked through in the thick red liquid that continued to flow out of his head, lay the body of Daniel “Danny” Almond. At just twenty years of age, he was far too young to be going out already, and certainly not in such a gruesome way, though John did at least feel grateful that it would have been so quick that he’d have barely known what was going on, and would have almost certainly felt no pain.
Feeling utterly helpless, John limply swayed from side to side in a kind of strangely impotent display that would have been very different had he had access to his hands. But as he didn’t, he simply leaned forwards and back, shaking his head in bewilderment at how badly the situation had turned in what seemed like an instant. This continued for some time, with seconds turning into minutes, and minutes stacking up for so long that hours could easily have gone by, until John couldn’t help but bang his head backwards against the wall to his rear in frustration, only to have it make the strangest of noises, and feel nothing like he’d expected it to.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you”, Devon said, apparently having come out of his own batch of anger just in time to see what John had done.
Staring back at the man, John felt nothing but confusion as he attempted to understand what was going on. But short of any further clues, he instead opted to once more press his head against the wall, albeit significant more softly this time. “What in the hell is that?”, he asked.
“A grenade”, Devon said matter-of-factly, “There’s a grenade in your hood”.
John had known Devon for some time by now. Respected by his fellow guards – and in charge of leading many of them – he was affectionately known as “The Captain” due to his solid leadership skills, and was revered by many for being a solid leader and potential candidate for taking over the reins of the Chicago camp, should the position ever open up. John had been surprised by the similarities between himself and Devon from day one, and found that more often than not, they were on the same wavelength about a lot of things. But sitting there in that moment, watching the blood continue to pool around his dead friend and hearing his still living brother in arms tell him there was an explosive sitting behind his head, John couldn’t have felt further apart from the man.
“Why in the hell is there a grenade in my hood?”, John asked, a smile almost breaking out due to his inability to ignore just how incredible ridiculous the situation was.
“I got it in there when we were brawling earlier”, Devon explained, “Same time as I got that god damn pistol” he added, unable to disassociate the pistol from the gruesome end it had resulted in Danny having to experience.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”, John asked, himself now permanently leaning forwards for fear of accidentally triggering the explosive, an action that was certain to separate his head from body.
“I tried”, Devon pointed out, “Earlier, but then they threw the kid in and then… well then everything moved too fast”.
Devon had a point. In the past hour, more had happened to change the dynamic of the situation than had happened since their arrival. Yet incredibly, they’d ended up exactly where they’d begun; trapped in a plain white box with no plan as to how they intended to get out. But of course, armed with the anger of losing a friend, and the combined smarts of two military men, all of that was about to change.
Although little noise from outside filtered into the box – mostly as little happened in the nearby hallway – the sound of gunfire was more than capable of making its way in, and at that moment, that’s exactly what started to happen. A single shot sounded out, followed by another, and then a small rally of shots, pauses separating each set of banging sounds as someone or something took a moment to aim.
“What in the hell”, John said, looking over at the door.
He knew that the sound was faint enough to mean it was more than likely happening way over on the other side of the stadium, but that didn’t change the fact that it might still have repercussions closer to them. Twisting round on the floor and then pushing off of the wall towards the door, John eventually rolled on his side across the final couple of metres, until he was laying on the ground, face alongside the bottom of the locked exit. Placing his eyes as close to the floor as he could, John began watching intently through the tiny gap.
Outside there was so little light that being able to make out anything more than shapes was optimistic. Thankfully for John however, the one
person outside the door had such a distinctive figure that shapes were more than enough. John watched intently as the man in the corner of the hallway began to shift and adjust with each passing gunshot, until eventually, the huge body disappeared off to the left, down the hallway leading back to the main wing.
“We need to go, now”, John announced as he spun around on the spot into a seated position.
“Now?”, Devon asked, “What’s the plan?”.
“The plan”, John began, whilst pulling his hands over his feet in order to bring the restraints in front of his body, “Is to improvise our way the hell out of here”, he said.
“John”, Devon said in a fairly unoptimistic tone, having not been convinced from the get-go and finding things even more difficult to get on board with once he knew there was no real plan in place, “You’ve seen how many of them there are out there, we won’t make it past that first hallway”.
“See that’s where you’re wrong”, John said, a slight smugness in his tone as he began undoing the lace of his left shoe. “We saw a lot of guards out there, but I caught sight of one of the guard towers outside on our way back here, and it was empty”, he said, now threading his disconnected lace around the cable ties on his wrist, “Something tells me that the guards we saw was their entire force”.
“That’s still a lot of people John”, Devon reasoned.
“True”, John replied, now pulling his lace as quickly as he could along the cable ties, back and forth, over and over, the sharp plastic of the restraints cutting into his skin as he did. “But split across a stadium this size with at least four guard towers, there won’t ever be as many as we saw in one place again”, he reasoned, “And now they’re gonna’ be bunched up dealing with whatever the hell that is”, he added, nodding to the sound of gunfire.
Road to Grissom: Part three of the Aftermath series Page 27
