The Devil's Road: Devil Dog Book 2 (Out Of The Dark)

by Boyd Craven III

  “I don’t dream when I sleep on the smack.”

  “So your murders trouble your dreams?” he asked.

  It was like he was standing away from me in a tunnel; his words were starting to sound hollow, tinny.

  “No, just the faces of those I’ve killed. I didn’t want to kill Ben’s father, but he chased us down with his dogs. I sent everyone ahead so my sacrifice could buy them time to get away.”

  “But you didn’t die,” he said quietly.

  “That’s the problem,” I told him. “As much as I try, I can’t eat the bullet myself… and everyone else is too inept to kill me.”

  I was almost out of it. I was trying to let the sleep take hold. Either he’d give me more or not. I wanted it, but I didn’t need it. Yet.

  “You want to die?”

  “After you’ve killed so many, death seems to be a welcome friend,” I said, hoping I made sense.

  I was starting to feel warm all over. Sweat was starting to bead up on my forehead and drip from my armpits. I didn’t care.

  “How many people have you killed, Dick?” he asked.

  “Altogether, or in the Marines?” I asked, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.

  “Both,” he said.

  “Twenty-seven confirmed kills in the Marines,” I told him.

  That number I knew; that number was in my records, and if he were testing me, he would know that also. The psychologists had used my body count to explain away my mental issues and PTSD, not the fact that everyone I knew and loved overseas was dead.

  “And overall?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I told him truthfully.

  I saw his eyes open in surprise.

  “So more than, say, thirty overall?”

  “Way more, I sort of lost count.”

  “How can you lose count?” he asked me, surprise in his voice.

  I started laughing weakly, my mirth building. Here was a man who was torturing me, turning me back into an addict, having me beaten, and he was shocked by my body count? What about his? The irony hit my funny bone, and the rest was history. I started laughing so hard I was choking myself. Skinner leaned over and raised the chair to the upright position.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked me.

  “You’re a monster, and I shock you? Scare you?” I said with half-lidded eyes.

  “Should I be scared of you?” he asked me, shaking his arms, the lovely syringe still in his hand.

  Take the cap off, plunge it in my arm. Bliss.

  “You let me loose from here, I’ll kill you. Kill your orderly, kill that guard,” I told him. “I don’t want to scare you, Doc, but you’re twice the monster I am. I’m just trying to fix what’s wrong in the world.”

  Gooseflesh broke out visibly on the man’s arms, and he threw the syringe. I couldn’t help it, I moaned when it bounced off the wall and hit the floor. I wanted it. Needed it.

  “Who are you really?” he asked me again.

  “Just a tired old man who wants his fix,” I told him.

  The doc raised his hand in the air and made a come-here gesture behind his head. When he stepped aside, the guard with the black gloves was standing there, a baton in his hands. The first blow was to the side of the head. The tip cut me open, and I could feel the blood sheeting down, but I didn’t care. I was too numb. He kept hitting me, side of the neck, shoulders, and suddenly I realized he was trying to break my collarbone. I laughed. If I was going to die, I was going to defy these sadistic fucks as long as I could. I’d almost never been broken; except in training and the one time I’d been captured, I never broke.

  I’d escaped the Taliban; I’d killed my captors and made an escape that left bodies across the desert, racking up my body count. The laughing threw the guard off balance, and he started smacking the baton against my arms, legs, chest, and stomach. The pain was starting to be overwhelming, but I was driven by my desire of that syringe on the floor. My entire focus was on the smack. Five feet away, bend over, a quick sharp prick, sweet bliss…

  I was lying on my back. Somewhere, I’d lost time. I remembered the severe beating and then two days of rest. The doc had kept me shot up. Once a day, then twice a day. One day another beating, though this time not so severe. Another one where the doc gave me a shot of something that made my skin burn, my heart race… it was something… Something. Still, I answered the same questions over and over. I wasn’t lying, I wasn’t.

  It must have been a while since my last dose because I was awake and in pain. Again my throat was dry, and I felt like I needed a drink in the worst way. A shot of Jose would be just the thing, wash it down with a Budweiser. My mouth watered at the thought. I hoped my shot would come soon; the pain was getting unbearable again. I spat and tasted the coppery-salty taste of my own blood.

  The door opened, and the orderly, guard and Doc Skinner walked in. The guard was holding two buckets, the orderly two thick towels, and the doc had something tucked into his arms out of sight. He then pulled in the stainless cart, one I’d become so familiar with, and put down whatever it was out of my sight.

  “So you’re going to waterboard me?” I asked him.

  None of them said anything. The guard put one of the buckets down and took the other in both hands. He started pouring it across me, from my waist to my head, soaking me. The water was cold, and it made me struggle to hold still. I pulled against my restraints and spit the salty water out of my mouth.

  “Something like that,” Preston told me.

  Then the guard walked out and walked back in with two more buckets.

  “Going to give me a shot first?” I asked Skinner.

  “Why? I want you to feel this,” he said, grinning.

  Sadistic bastard. Still, this wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined… or if it was, it was because he was getting me hooked all over again. All he’d have to do is cut off the smack, and I’d make up any lie for him. I was on the verge of doing that when he pulled the Taser from the cart. That had been what he was hiding.

  “Ok. Time to play Uncle Fester,” I said and started cackling.

  “He’s losing it,” the orderly said.

  “Shut up,” Doc hissed. “Towel.”

  A white fluffy towel was thrown over my head suddenly, hanging down on either side of my head.

  “If you would,” I heard Skinner ask.

  When the water was first poured, it wasn’t bad. When it covered my nose and mouth, wetting the towel, I held my breath so I wouldn’t swallow any. I held my breath while it was being poured, and when they paused I opened my mouth, blew out my breath, and tried to draw in more…

  The towel stuck to my mouth as I tried to breathe in. Nothing. Panic started setting in. I tried to draw another breath, and I got moisture from the towel inside my throat. I coughed, and what little air I’d drawn in was blown out as I choked.

  The water was being poured as I coughed, and it was worse this time. I couldn’t stop the choking, the lack of air. I was starting to see spots. My chest hurt from choking and coughing.

  Something rumbled. I could feel it through whatever I was lying on. The pouring stopped, and I choked and gasped.

  “Go see what that is,” Doc snarled.

  “Me?” the guard asked.

  “Yes, you. I’m not going to stop now.” His voice sounded like he’d lost patience.

  “Now sir,” Skinner said, laying a hand on my towel-covered head. “You ready to answer my questions?”

  I tried to answer, but I was passing out or choking to death. I didn’t know which. I didn’t have enough breath to tell him yes, so I gave him the thumbs-up. I hoped he could see that.

  “No? Oh well, this is going to hurt,” he said, and I heard a crackle.

  My body shook from the electrical charge, every nerve ending shooting off bolts of pain. I think my blood was on fire; I knew my nerve endings were. As suddenly as it started, it stopped, and the towel was pulled up to open up my mouth to the air. I took deep gasping breaths, coughing
and spitting as I went. The blackness receded, but it wasn’t enough.

  “Now, one last time. Who are you really?” Skinner asked.

  My eyes were still covered, but I could hear the other man, the orderly in the room, by his hoarse breathing. He was either scared or turned on. Neither of which helped me.

  “Dick Pershing,” I said when I could speak.

  “You know, I still don’t believe you, so let me run some names by you,” Doc said, taking the towel off of my face.

  “What do you know about Blake and Sandra Jackson?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Who are they?”

  “What do you know about a man named King?”

  “King what?” I asked.

  “King, he just goes by King.”

  Skinner was pissed, but I could see him turning red in the face. I hoped he gave me another shot before he stroked out. Still the name rang a bell. Something long in the past. It didn’t have any association to Sandra Jackson, but there was a Sandra and a King I remembered, it’s just that… they were both dead.

  “Maybe a long time ago. Heard rumor of a special ops guy.”

  “How long ago?” Skinner asked immediately.

  “He’s been dead at least ten years,” I told him.

  “He’s not dead!” Skinner screamed.

  “Just like I’m not dead?” I asked, contempt in my voice.

  He hit me with the Taser again. My body shook, and I wanted it to end. I wanted to pass out. He started laughing, and a smell drifted up to me. Burned meat. I looked at my stomach and could see my side, right over my healed gunshot wound, turning dark as the electricity coursed through my body. Going to burn me alive, I thought.

  “John Norton,” Skinner asked simultaneously as he cut off the juice to the Taser, pulling his hand back.

  It took me almost a minute to answer.

  “John Norton!” Skinner screamed.

  “He’s a Navy SEAL,” I said, remembering immediately. “Retired. Went back home to Alabama. He’s a good man.”

  Why was he asking me about old ghosts in the special ops community?

  “He’s not retired, he’s right the fuck in front of me!” Skinner screamed and hit me again with the Taser.

  I was almost out cold when what sounded like running footsteps made Skinner pause and gave me a chance to pray for death.

  “I’m not John,” I whispered, but Skinner was already turning to look.

  The guard from earlier came running back in, white as a sheet.

  “We’re under attack. Commander has ordered us to evac. We have a Hummer topside. He wants Norton to come with us.”

  “I’m not John Norton,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m Dick Pershing.”

  “Shut up or I’ll knock you out,” the guard said.

  “I’m not done here,” Skinner told the guard.

  “Yes, we’re to evac to the main compound. We’re under heavy attack.”

  “I don’t answer to you!” Skinner snarled at the guard. The orderly put his hands up as if to show he wasn’t getting in the middle of it.

  I wiggled my toes, flexed my hands. I heard another boom and felt the vibration at my feet. Everyone looked at me, and then at Skinner. The guard drew his pistol and aimed it at the doc.

  “I have orders, Doc. Either comply or else.”

  Skinner started screaming curses, and I thought the guard was going to deck him with those reinforced black gloves, but he holstered the pistol on his right hip instead.

  “What do we need to do again?” Skinner asked through gritted teeth.

  “We have a Hummer upstairs. We’re to evac to the main compound. The President wants as much info from this man as we can get.”

  The President of what?

  “We don’t have any wheelchairs or gurneys down here. The elevator’s out,” Skinner said.

  “Then the bastard walks,” he said, starting to work at the restraint on my legs.

  In a moment, the orderly was pulling at the ones on the other side. I kept flexing my leg and arm, testing my hand muscles and willing the pain to leave, for the blood flow to return to normal. I thought I’d try something cute when my wrists were released, but I didn’t have the strength. I could barely lift my arm at first. Seeing that, the orderly and the guard pulled at me, sitting me up. I felt nauseous for half a second, and then my feet were hitting the ground.

  I was still wearing my camo pants and boots. For half a second I wondered how that was possible, but I was dry heaving at being suddenly lifted to my feet.

  “Don’t get any on me,” Skinner snapped, starting to grab things from his tray, filling his lab coat.

  “Just move, old man,” the guard said.

  “I’ll remember this,” Skinner snapped. “And you’ll pay for your insolence.”

  “How about you just die down here, old man? The insurgents killed you. Nobody will be the wiser.”

  I could see the blood leave Skinner’s face as the words hit home. The guard draped my arm over his shoulder, and the orderly did the same. Unfortunately, I had been at both ends of a walk like this, and I acted even more fragile than I felt as we started leaving the dank cell.

  I gagged and slumped, letting my arm slide off the guard’s shoulder. Instead of trying to stop my fall, I grabbed his hastily holstered pistol. Even as I was hitting the ground, I fired three shots into the guard’s back and neck. Gore sprayed the adjoining cement wall as he slumped. My fourth shot took the orderly in the face, and Skinner stood there for half a second and then turned to run. My fifth shot hit him just over the ass, and he fell to the ground. He screamed, and his arms slapped at the ground, pushing and pulling.

  I’d landed on my right side, and my body was on fire. It took me several moments to let the pain I’d been holding back wash over me, and then I cleared my head of it. With shaky and weak arms, I was able to push myself to a kneeling position. I crawled with the pistol in my hand towards the room I had been in. I could smell the blood, gore, and evacuated bowels of those around me, but I ignored it, dry heaving as I crawled. I had to pull myself into my holding cell by the door jam. Still sitting there on the floor was the syringe.

  I pulled it to me and put it in my teeth. Using my hands, I tried to pull myself into a standing position, but my legs weren’t quite ready for it.

  “My legs, you bastard, I can’t move my legs,” Skinner screamed.

  My head had cleared enough that I could now make out his words and understand them.

  “I told you I was going to kill you,” I said as I transferred the syringe into my left hand.

  I swayed on my feet till I had my balance back. Briefly, I wondered how much time had passed since I started the killing, and I knew it was probably minutes, but it felt like hours.

  “I can’t move my legs, you fuck. I can’t move my legs!”

  “That’s because I hit you in the spine. You’re back-broke and gut-shot, Doc. You’re going to die a slow, painful death.”

  He let out an inarticulate scream of rage, and I decided I wanted to face him, one last time. For all he put me through, I wanted to watch the lights blink out of his eyes. I walked over, using my gun hand on the wall to steady myself. I passed him and saw that he’d fallen just short of a stairway. The cement stairs led up, turned a corner, and led up again. I sat on the second step, the doc only a hair’s breadth away. He pushed his arms down so he could raise his head and see me.

  “John, you’ll never escape. They have plans for you,” he hissed.

  “Maybe not, but I’m not John Norton. I know him, served with him on some stuff. You should know that.”

  “You can’t be Dick. Dick died in combat.”

  “Your records are fucked then. They sheep-dipped a lot of us, but I was a disgrace. They didn’t wash my records. I got to come home to deal with shit on my own. You piece of—”

  Silver flashed out from his hands, and I felt a burning along my leg as the scalpel he’d palmed cut a thin furrow in my leg. I fired the p
istol almost as fast as his knife hand had moved, spraying the floor beside him with what was left of the sadistic torturer. I clamped a hand over the wound for a second and then looked. It was bleeding, but not as horrible as it felt. Probably an after-effect of being shot. Still, it hurt. I looked at the syringe in my left hand and traded it for the gun in my right. I pulled the cap off with my teeth and spit it.

  “Need something to walk out of here,” I told myself and plunged the needle into my arm, pushing the plunger down.

  The euphoria and warm feeling hit me in a rush. I stood and almost swooned as the smack made me gasp in pleasure. I used the guardrail to make it up to the first landing, where the stairs stopped at a ninety-degree turn. I paused, breathing hard. I started up them slowly until I got to another landing. Soon, I was counting landings and not steps. Just a little ways ahead I could see another steel door, with sunlight coming in through the bottom. I heard the rattle of gunfire now, not a lot, but a random shot here and there.

  The door opened just as I made it to the landing, and a surprised soldier in camo and a DHS patch appeared in the doorway. He looked at me in shock, a carbine held low and ready. In half a heartbeat I realized he didn’t even know he had the gun in his hands, so I shot him. He crumpled. I kept firing until the gun clicked empty. I threw it away behind me and reached for his M4. I pulled it off his still-twitching corpse, grabbed two extra mags from his mag pouch, and put it in a cargo pocket. I was feeling like hammered shit, but steadier on my feet than I had been.

  When I pushed the door open, the sunlight almost blinded me, and I made no move to find cover. I was in a surprised shock. Men in sheriff’s uniforms were walking amongst the fallen men in camo and were putting rounds into the heads of the DHS men. I saw that I was in a gated compound, comprised of three sets of fencing and four smoking blown-to-shit watch towers at every corner. My sudden emergence had everyone spin and train their guns at me.

  “Parley?” I said and giggled, letting the M4 dangle from my right hand and pointing it straight down.

  “That’s him! Don’t shoot!”

  I knew that voice. I looked up to see Mary open the door to a Hummer and start running towards me. I dropped the carbine and stumble-ran to meet her. She stopped half a yard from me, but I kept going, falling as I pulled her into my arms. She fell on top of me, almost pushing all the air out of my lungs, but she was here! I pulled her close and kissed her as I cried.