by John Brown
“Hey Frank, come here real quick. The stupid fish has croaked! Damn it, Frank, we’re gonna get in real trouble for this, are you kiddin’ me? Holy shit.”
The two guards cautiously entered the cell, goggling at the body on the bed. Holding their noses, they searched around for clues.
“What the fuck happened here?” Frank was absolutely furious. “Damn it, Hasan, you fucker, we weren’t supposed to fuckin’ kill him, you fuckin’ idiot. You were supposed to be fuckin’ watchin’ him,” he said, jabbing his finger into Hasan’s chest.
“Don’t you blame me, Frank, you were supposed to be watchin’ too, not chillin’ in the break room all the time.”
Frank’s features clouded with a fresh realization that imparted even more anxiety.
“Oh, my God, OMG. My fuckin’ review’s comin’ up next month.”
Frank looked squarely into his comrade’s panicky eyes.
“Okay, now — now you look here, all right? We didn’t do fuckin’ nothin’, you fuckin’ got that, nothin’! We’re not fuckin’ responsible, all right? I’ll file this under ‘Self-Injurious Behavior Incident’ and that’ll be fuckin’ that, I’ll back you up and you back—”
“Yaaa!”
Throwing off the sheet, Benson suddenly rose from the bed. In the same motion he kicked Hasan in the head, who jolted back, tottering and dazed. Another kick and Hasan’s skull struck the concrete wall. He slithered slowly to the floor, leaving a trail of blood on his descent. Benson immediately struck Frank in the throat with the outer edge of his palm, causing the guard to stoop and clutch his windpipe, gasping for breath. Clasping both hands on the back of Frank’s head, he twice brought his knee up hard into the guard’s ribs. He heard a soft crack and let Frank fall away to stagger sideways and collapse under his own weight.
Wheezing and panting, fighting the immense fatigue washing over him, Benson hurriedly changed into Frank’s uniform. He strapped on a holstered gun and pulled his hat brim low. Hasan lay motionless, bleeding onto the floor.
Silently closing the cell door behind him, Benson cautiously entered the hall. Before him stretched a long corridor of identical cells. He searched in both directions, but no exit signs were posted. Walking quickly down the corridor in the direction he guessed might be the way out, all was empty. Machinery quietly hummed in the distance. He continued swiftly, looking behind for any sign of trouble.
He turned a corner. Two guards stood directly in front of him, gripping their guns with both hands, the barrels aimed at his face.
“Freeze!”
14
Any Last Requests?
HIS HANDS SHACKLED TO HEAVY IRON RINGS mounted on the cinder blocks of the inner yard, Benson kicked wildly at the two guards trying to control him. His own guard uniform was torn and ripped off his body from behind, the shirt collar choking him with the force. It took several hard yanks until the buttons popped off and the shirt shredded around his waist, leaving his torso bare.
He waited an interminable time, sweating in the stifling summer heat and humidity.
Crack! The whip strafed across his back with a shocking sting; his face welled up and twisted with animal rage from the searing pain. The few other prisoners in the yard stood around watching the spectacle. Crack! Each cruel stroke inflicted an electrifying jolt that struck him to his core.
He turned his head for a glimpse of his tormentor, nearly catching the whip on his face. An athletic woman stridently wielded the lash, her pretty face displaying neither pleasure nor remorse. She wore a flight-style jumpsuit similar to that of the other agents, but in a cream color; formfitting and open to the neck. Winding up like a baseball pitcher, she grunted with the effort of each savage stroke.
He ducked his head beneath his shoulders and waited for the strikes, delivered at unpredictable intervals, aimed precisely at different areas of his back, legs, buttocks, and shoulders. The sharp whipping sound of the lash streaking through the air sent him into convulsions even before the vicious crack wracked his entire body with excruciating agony. With each unrelenting stroke he became increasingly numb; he cried out in sheer torment less and less. He slid limply down the wall until his knees hit the ground, his head slumping forward, his arms stretched taut in the shackles, silent and still.
The woman broke off her attack, gathering up and coiling the long, tapered whip in exact, even loops, meticulously fitting it inside its carrying case. She slung the handle over her shoulder and walked away.
Shuddering, naked and face down on top of the bed, his back and legs scarred and crusted with dark, dried blood, Benson awoke in his cell completely disoriented. He turned his head to each side, suddenly realizing where he was. The motion instantly produced a splitting headache. He laid still until it subsided. Gingerly struggling to rise, he pushed himself up with his arms. The slight movement sent shooting pains from his oozing wounds down his back to his buttocks and legs, and he collapsed on the bed.
It took much persistence to force open the meal-tray slot at the bottom of the door. On his hands and knees, Benson turned his head sideways, trying to get his mouth closer to the opening.
“Guard! Guard! I don’t have any clothes or blanket. It’s crazy c-c-cold!”
The thick, deadening fog of white noise pumped into the corridor muffled his voice. He was naked; clothes rubbing on his raw wounds would probably be too painful to wear, anyway. He could only bear to lie face down on his bed or stand up, but now it was freezing inside.
Entreaties like this had never produced any reaction before, but he figured it was worth a try from sheer desperation. Through the blanket of white noise he thought that he could hear faint footsteps approaching. Maybe they were finally showing some small measure of mercy. Perhaps they saw that this was a simple, reasonable request. His hopes soared.
He retreated from the door just in time as it flew open and smashed into the wall. One of the two guards held a heavy bucket. Recoiling like a discus thrower, he hurled the contents onto Benson. Icy water splashed off his naked body, freezing and burning his wounds at the same time. He stood there speechless, rigid with shock as the bone-chilling water dripped off him.
Both guards enjoyed a spirited laugh. The other guard threw some clothes on the floor. They landed in a puddle of ice and water. In that moment, Benson forgot his discomfort. He seethed, glaring at his captors with a passionate hatred, the intensity of which was unlike anything he had ever felt before. His fury only added to their amusement.
He picked up the soaked clothes and held them close, bundling them tightly into a heavy, dense ball.
“I don’t like the cut of these,” he hissed.
One of the guards sneered at this bravado, turning to his comrade.
“You believe this?” he said. “You believe this guy?”
Benson hurled the ball of wet clothes with all his strength, striking the guard squarely in the groin with the hefty wad. The man turned to face Benson, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Groaning, he doubled over and fell onto his side, seizing his crotch with both hands and softly crying.
“They’re just not me.”
Benson stood naked over the guard, dripping water on him, the better to humiliate him.
“You put them on — over your panties, you pus-sucking weasel.”
His head covered by an orange hood, hands in thick orange mittens, his feet in bulky orange socks, Benson knelt on the floor, stooped over. His mouth was gagged and bound with duct tape. Industrial-grade noise suppressors covered his ears. Someone tied his hands together behind his back. The room was filled with prisoners in the same attire kneeling in the same position on the cement floor. Watchful guards stood over them, rifles at the ready. A psychiatrist in a white coat moved among the stooped prisoners, stopping from time to time, carefully recording her observations of the captives in various stress positions.
Benson was forced to kneel like this for a long time at each session. After only a few minutes his knees and back would ache terribly. Before long
, the weight of his head bearing down in the stooped position would cause excruciating, dull pain in his upper shoulders and neck. He would raise and lower his head to relieve the gnawing soreness, but there was never much relief. His muscles would begin cramping, then tingling, and he would feel numbness come on. His hands and feet would grow cold. His knees pressing on the unforgiving floor would hurt badly; he would shift around to move the pain points to other spots, and then shift back again when that position, too, became unbearable.
In the first of these sessions, unable to endure any more, he had stood up, slowly and stiffly. Before he could reach his full height he was kicked in the back of his knees and fell over, sprawling on the floor. The doctor had hurried over, shuffling through her notes to make an entry of the exact time and pressure points that gave out — valuable data to populate tolerance threshold charts that might prove useful one day to soldiers in combat.
The sensory deprivation was so extreme that he couldn’t hear himself breathe. His only physical sensation was of the slight movement he could make — undetected or perhaps tolerated by the guards — and the acute discomfort. His back throbbed with pain; the blood pounded in his temples. He stretched his fingers and moved his head back and forth for mental and physical stimulation. A guard came over and silently placed his boot on the back of Benson’s head, pinning his forehead to the floor until the message was understood.
Time stood still without the senses. He thought that he could hear voices, but of course that was impossible. The more that he tried to resist, the more that he lost control, until there was no sensation at all left in his body. He floated upward, slowly at first, and then faster. The guards and the doctor frantically clawed at him as he drifted higher, but their hands just went right through him. Soaring above the compound, he left it behind until it was only a speck over the lush landscape. He wafted over a lake. It was warm and sunny; he floated effortlessly with the light breeze, happy to be carried away to wherever it might take him. He did a somersault, turning end over end, and then tried a barrel roll, reversing after several rolls to spin in the opposite direction. He was joined in his aerobatics by pigeons, sparrows, and other small birds, up to red-tailed hawks and golden eagles of enormous wingspan, all of them matching his graceful movements in unison, a carefree dance in the heavens. He was at peace with the world.
The sun sparkled off the lake far below, the ripples glittering in the water. Families in rowboats looked up in the sky to see him swooping and gliding with the birds. They smiled at him, the children waving and laughing. He laughed and waved back.
One of the birds hovered in the air next to him, an oversized hummingbird with a red throat. It seemed to be staring right through him with its glowing eyes. Alarmed, he realized that it was a machine, a miniature drone. He felt himself growing heavy and falling rapidly. In terror, he hurtled to Earth, crashing through the roof of the compound. They poked him with a knife, cruelly laughing as he jerked wildly on the floor with each brutal stick, the doctor recording the subject’s clinical reactions on her clipboard. Psychiatrists hovered over him, their murky voices plotting, dropping heavy weights on him, kicking him, stomping mercilessly on his head. Bound and defenseless, they heaved him over a cliff into the ocean far below. He spun end over end, out of control, dazed and disoriented, nausea rising, heart pounding wildly, dashed to pieces on the sharp rocks, writhing and suffocating in the surf, his lungs filling with icy salt water, eight-year old Daniel grasping his hand in his own, their bodies pitching helplessly together in the crashing underwater current. Help me, Daniel cried, his stricken, innocent child’s face bleating, help me Dad, crying so frantically that he lost his breath, gasping for air, gurgling and turning color. Battered and tossed by the waves, they floated higher, breaking free to the surface, desperately inhaling life.
“Please, have a seat,” the new agent said.
He tapped on his computer and then looked at Benson with a satisfied expression. This one was a little older and seemed more experienced than the others, with a self-assured air about him. He leaned forward earnestly, lacing his fingers together on the table.
“Mr. Benson, my name is Steven Austin. You’ve sure been through a lot, we do understand. Sometimes we might be a bit overzealous, but we’re tryin’ our best, really. We’re workin’ to make our enhanced interview programs fit the law, and — well, you know, let’s just say we’re workin’ on it. A lot of this is pretty new. It’s not easy, these are not your routine criminal cases, no. Your regular civilian courts aren’t really — well, they’re not really equipped for this kinda thing, I mean, they’re fine when it comes to drug crimes and firearms possession and gambling and tax evasion and seatbelt and helmet laws and prostitution, sure, but they’ve also let dangerous suspects go free who might’ve turned up later on the battlefield, and we can’t risk letting even one guilty suspect go free. There’s just, you know, there’s too much at stake. We call it the Precautionary Principle. Normal juries can’t really handle this, uh, this situation, either; too specialized. The Homeland’s in danger and we just wanna get to the truth, that’s—”
“You talk too much.”
Benson massaged his throat and swallowed with difficulty.
“And don’t use that creepy word ‘Homeland’ around me.”
“Just give us what we need and it’ll all end. No more rough treatment, you have my word.”
Benson responded with an icy stare.
“Here, I wanna show you something.”
Austin nodded discreetly to his colleague, who spun the monitor around so that Benson could see it directly. It was a video of two men hotly arguing outside a coffee shop on a busy street. The men made threatening gestures and shouted at each other before stomping away in opposite directions. It appeared to be shot at a high vantage point from the other side of the street. Wearing a business suit, one of the men resembled Benson, at least from that distance. Sirens, honking, and other traffic noise dominated the video. At certain points, the camera quivered erratically or randomly zoomed in and out of focus. The man in the suit climbed into a car that looked like the kind Benson drove, screeching away into the traffic.
“That’s ‘Wally’ al-Watanabe, and the other guy,” Austin leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “is you.”
He sat back in his chair, looking at Benson in eager anticipation.
“Well, what do ya think about that?”
Benson stared at the screen, his brow furrowed. He pursed his lips and turned his face down, saying nothing for a while. He looked at Austin with great concern.
“My throat,” he whispered hoarsely, “my throat is sore. Can’t talk.” He massaged his throat. “Get me some coffee first. Make it really hot. Please.”
Oscar Goldman, the other agent at the table, brightened immediately.
“That’s more like it,” said Agent Goldman. “You’re finally smartening up.”
In a sweeping, dismissive motion, he waved both his hands at the guard standing in front of the door.
“Quick, you — get the coffee.”
Goldman snapped his fingers and waved again to get the guard moving, but he just stood there. The guard pointed at his chest, silently mouthing, “Me?”
“Don’t just stand there, you rumhead, move it! You heard Mr. Benson, very hot. And make it snappy.”
The two agents flashed an expressive glance at each other.
After some minutes, the guard shuffled back sullenly into the room with a white foam cup, two pink packets of artificial sweetener, and a stir stick, setting them on the table. The coffee was exceedingly hot.
Benson held the cup to his face and sniffed, wrinkling his nose. Looking directly at Austin, he tore open one of the packets and dumped the white powder in the cup. He stirred it with the plastic stick and looked doubtfully at the steaming contents. An oily film swirled on the surface. He set down the stick and examined the coffee. He raised the cup to his nose, inhaled the burned scent, and shook his head.
He set the cup down on the table and stared at it.
Austin was fidgeting in his seat.
“C’mon, Mr. Benson, we have important matters to discuss, you know? A lot of time has gone by and we’d like to wrap this thing up real quick, okay?”
Benson took the tiniest sip with a pronounced, noisy slurp, twisting his face in disgust. He put the cup down gently. It was burning hot.
“You insult me,” he said in a loud voice. “This tastes like shit.”
“So it ain’t Starbucks — so what?” said Agent Austin.
“You try it.”
Benson leaned forward and splashed the burning coffee in the agents’ faces. They held their hands to their scalded faces in horror. The searing liquid dripped down their necks and inside their mock flight uniforms.
“The brightness is exceptionally low,” Benson said, settling back in his chair. “The back flavor is burned and bitter. Musty, gamey notes on the front end. An exceptionally lackluster effort.”
Benson struggled to complete his daily self-imposed exercise regimen. The exertion of completing even a few pushups left him collapsed in a winded heap. Tired and hungry, he had begun hallucinating in random fits, his mind drifting off on its own. It took all of his determination to stay balanced and lucid. He couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything, not even the chess games with his imaginary toilet-paper opponents.
I feel myself fading away.
The thought filled him with worry. It was the beginning of the end, a downward death spiral until his mind and body were destroyed forever.
He lay in bed and massaged his forehead in a vain attempt to relieve a sudden headache. The controlled environment was starting to achieve its purpose. He had known it would, eventually; no one could hold out forever. Prisoners are reduced to a state of learned helplessness wherein nothing is under their control. Noise and quiet, cold and heat, food and drink, light and darkness, confinement and space; all are manipulated randomly to disorient the senses and distort reality. Nothing makes any sense. Actions have no logical or predictable outcomes. Isolation, capricious cruelty mingled with acts of kindness, utter dependency for nourishment and the exercise of basic bodily functions — these are their tools.
