The wind becomes a long ‘aaaaaaaa'. “Daaaaaaa—” it howls.
Kyle runs for the hallway, the door, and the long stairway beyond. He suddenly understands what's happening. He must hurry.
The bedroom appears. Yolanda is shaking him.
"Daddy, wake up,” she pleads. “Mom's just come home, and there are two policemen at the door to see you."
Kyle jerks himself up off the bed, wavers down the hall to the front door. Laura is there holding the door ajar.
She says nothing, but her eyes are wide, her lower lip trembling.
Laura comes home, Kyle thinks, and suddenly the police arrive. He opens the door. Two officers look back at him.
"Mr Kyle Barrett? You're wanted for questioning,” one of them says calmly. The policeman is of medium height. That's all that Kyle sees of him.
"For what?” he asks.
"A problem that concerns you,” the officer says.
No point in arguing, and useless to ask for more information. Kyle knows he simply must go. He quickly packs a bag with his toothbrush and a change of underwear. As he goes out the door, Kyle turns around to look at Laura. Yolanda huddles at her mother's side.
"Where are you taking him?” Laura screams at the policemen. Her voice rips the air.
Kyle reaches for her, grasps her hand.
"You'll be informed in due time,” says the officer.
* * * *
The air-conditioned police car moves through the streets. These tree-lined streets, these houses, full of normal people living normal lives, Kyle thinks. But he knows that isn't true. No one lives a normal life anymore.
He tries to listen to the attic. No tapping, no headache. His fatigue seems to have fallen away. That's good. He'll need all his strength for what is to come. Should he access the observation room? Tell the guys what is happening? No. They'll suspect it anyway after the way he rushed out.
The ride to the police station is short. Now Kyle's in a cool back room with white walls and travel posters of majestic mountain scenes. Please sit down and wait, one of his officers tells him, and points to a rickety metal folding chair in the middle of the room. His officers, Kyle thinks, the ones who brought him here. They look back at him.
They are both of medium height, Kyle sees. And of medium build, with medium faces. And medium voices that calmly tell him what to do. He thinks of that medium voice that said, “You'll be informed in due time."
Behind Kyle a door opens. His officers look up.
Kyle wants to see the newcomer too. He turns, glimpses two men in plain clothes, one of them already very close to him, his arms raised, holding something above Kyle's head.
Now Kyle sees nothing more. Rough cloth is pulled over his head, scraping down across his forehead and nose.
The blow comes—a violent push—and Kyle falls flat on the hard tile floor, face down. The wind is knocked out of him. He tries to scream, but a searing pain is all that comes up from his chest. His face, shoulders and arms feel cold and numb. He feels his bladder begin to give way, but before the urine runs, he flexes his muscles. He won't let that happen, won't shame himself. The flow doesn't come.
He's got to be strong, he thinks. He's got to protect the men in the attic. He knows what to expect. He and Trevor have talked about arrest many times.
Kyle's arms and legs are jerked about. Handcuffs and shackles are tight around his wrists and ankles now, the hood tight around his neck. Tight, tight, tight, until he can hardly breathe. Are they going to strangle him? Here and now? Already?
"Come on, get up,” says a gravelly voice, a man's voice, but not one of his officers. “You've got an appointment to keep."
Rough hands grip his arms, drag him to his feet.
"Walk,” says the gravelly voice, and the hands push him along.
The hood and cord chafe and burn. The handcuffs and shackles cut, but Kyle moves quickly outside into the heat. The hands that pushed him now lift him. He's in a vehicle again, pushed to the far end of a hard bench. It's a van this time from the sound of the idling motor. Someone takes the seat next to Kyle. Through his hood Kyle can smell the man's aftershave, sharp and sweet.
The engine revs and the van turns sharply into the street.
Kyle imagines the same dark streets he rode through only moments before. The van turns and turns again, and Kyle soon has no idea where he is. He might as well put this time to use. He may not get another chance at direct access. He holds his head straight.
Marty, David and Carson are all there. They all speak at once, their voices a blasting mixture of fear, rage and bluster. What's going on? Ow, that hurts. I've been afraid of this all along. Shit, where the hell are they taking you? Taking us, Marty points out. Careful not to speak out loud, Kyle runs the day's events by them all. Trevor's panicked visit to the restaurant this morning, Gill's arrest, Trevor's no show at the gym, and Russ, Russ with his low voice offering help. Hang in there, Kyle, says David, don't let the bastards intimidate you. Let me have a go at them, Kyle, Carson now says. Let me into the control room and I'll give them a run for their money.
"No,” mumbles Kyle aloud in the noise and excitement, “I'm the one who—"
"Shut up,” says the aftershave man next to Kyle.
Kyle feels a sharp jab in the ribs. A club of some sort. Ow, says Carson, and the noise inside Kyle's head stops. He breaks the connection.
We're in deep trouble, Kyle thinks.
* * * *
It must be early morning, maybe five or so. Kyle crouches in a cage, shivering in his blue canvas jumpsuit. They brought him here last night after a long drive. Kyle couldn't say how long. Just long. They stripped him and gave him this jumpsuit, but nothing to wear underneath. The rough material and seams chafe his skin. Then they made him walk in a circle, for hours, and the plastic sandals they gave him cut his feet raw. He asked permission to go to the toilet, but they told him to keep walking.
He finally peed in his suit and it ran down onto the floor.
"Look what you're doing to my floor,” barked the aftershave man, and he beat Kyle several times on the back with a club.
Kyle looked at the guard. Aftershave, he had started calling him. The other one, the gravelly voiced one had gone by then. Off duty perhaps? Kyle had seen both their faces by then. He couldn't describe them, except that there was nothing medium about them. Aftershave hooded him again, threw him in this cage and turned out the light. Kyle fumbled about, exploring. The cage isn't more than a few square meters—he can't stand up without bumping his head on the wire mesh ceiling—a plank for a bed, and a bucket in the corner. But he can't use the bucket. He's still handcuffed, behind his back. And by the time they put him here his ankles were so sore from the shackles that he crouched on this plank and hasn't moved since.
Kyle shivers, and his breath is short. He tries to sleep but when he shuts his eyes he feels propelled through the air, as if he were flying. He'd like to stretch out his arms, pretend to flap them like wings, feel as though he had some control over this flight, but he's handcuffed. He looks down to get his bearings, but the ground is so far below that he can't see a thing.
And he wonders about how he ended up here. Who denounced him? Someone surely pointed a finger. You don't end up here any other way. He'd been careful. He certainly hadn't walked around town with a sign that said Enemy of freedom. Come and get me.
No. Somebody has been watching him, Kyle thinks. Somebody suspected him, somebody who could get close to him.
He thinks he knows who.
Beyond Kyle's hood a brightness explodes, strong and white. The lights have come on. A door slams with a heavy metallic bang that echoes through this warehouse-like building.
"Good morning,” yells a voice. It's that gravelly voice from last night.
Gravelly Voice and Aftershave, apparently they're his new officers. Other presences, other pairs of rough arms and hands, come and go, lending a helping hand. They say nothing. But Gravelly Voice and Aftershave, they're his. Kyle h
asn't heard Gravelly all night, but Aftershave seems to have been here all the time. Now Gravelly is back, his voice booming through the building.
Morning? But they only turned out the lights a short time ago. He can't be sure what time it is anyway. He can't be sure of anything.
Morning. Laura will have to get up soon, go in to the restaurant in his place, get the day under way. Kyle still hears her voice as she screamed last night, “Where are you taking him?” Laura, with Yolanda huddled at her side. Funny how Yolanda seemed to huddle. She's so tall, like her dad. But there she was, by her mother's side, huddling. Her mother, so petite. Kyle thinks of Randy too, already in bed last night when the police came. Did he wake up?
But it's Laura who's on Kyle's mind the most. Her voice, how it had torn into his head, into his heart. Where are you taking him? He had an appointment to keep, Kyle would like to tell her now. Something that concerns him. Him! Not her, not the children. He's sorry if he's put them in danger. But he had to do it.
Should he attempt a quick contact in the observation room? He listens to the attic, but feels nothing. In his mind he sees the faces of each of the men as the apartment shook and shuddered. An earthquake, he thinks. The big one that has finally struck.
Kyle hears footsteps now, thick hard soles on a cement floor, coming towards his cage.
"Breakfast time,” says Gravelly Voice. The guard comes into the cage and tears off Kyle's hood.
Kyle doesn't feel hungry, but he'd like some water. Keep yourself hydrated, Trevor had told him. It helps against hunger. They won't give you much to eat.
* * * *
It must be afternoon now. The heat is stifling. Kyle lies on his wooden plank. His sweat adds to the smell of urine. He thinks he may have slept for a while, but he can't be sure. His fear has settled into a gnawing, burrowing feeling in his gut. Be strong, he tells himself once again. Stronger than them.
Breakfast was cornflakes and weak lukewarm coffee. The flakes floated in warm milk nearly gone off, that now curdles in Kyle's stomach. What little he got of it. Gravelly Voice held the paper cup to his mouth and tried to pour the stuff down his throat. Most of it ran down his chest, beneath his jumpsuit. “Oops, sorry bud,” said Gravelly Voice. The coffee, too, went mostly down Kyle's chest, joining the milk and soggy cornflakes in his crotch. (Yes, there's a little coffee tinge to his stink too.) But Gravelly Voice took greater care with the water. Kyle drank long. As much as he could.
"Now,” said Gravelly Voice, “come out for a little walk."
And Kyle again walked in circles in front of his cage. For hours.
When the guard put him back in, he took off Kyle's handcuffs. Kyle used the bucket, then lay down again. He lies there still, the taste of curdled milk in his mouth, the odor from the bucket lingering in the air.
Kyle jerks his head upright. It's suddenly dark. He thinks he must have slept. So is it night? With no lunch or dinner? No interrogation yet? No, it would be too early for that. They let you live in dread for a while, Trevor had told him, for days even, to let you imagine all the things they might do to you, let the terror build up inside you. They let you build it up yourself.
In the dark Kyle wants to try to sleep again. But he should contact the attic first. It's dangerous, but he owes the men an update.
They're waiting for him in the observation room. Wow, says David. Marty says nothing, but Kyle can imagine him shaking his head. Carson begins to say something but he coughs and sputters. The effect of the pain and the smell, maybe? Carson leaves the room. Kyle decides to go up there and see the guys himself.
On his plank Kyle lies back and shuts his eyes.
The apartment hallway is cool and comfortable. The pain in his wrists and ankles, the blisters on his feet, don't seem to hurt so much. But he's wearing his jumpsuit here too, and the stink follows him.
David and Marty are there. They take Kyle out onto the terrace and sit him down in the warm night air. Marty wipes his forehead with a wet cloth.
It is indeed night. Kyle can't stay long, he knows. He should sleep, as long as the guards let him. He looks at Marty and David sitting opposite him on the deck chairs. Carson comes out of the apartment now. He stands near the door, his hands in his pockets. No one says anything.
Kyle smiles. He can't think of anything to say either, except goodbye. Because this is goodbye. He feels it. He looks at the gate in the back fence, thinks of the red door. Soon he will have to figure out how to open them. Where will the guys go? Has the underground thought of that?
The sharp odor of aftershave hits Kyle, stinging his nose. The night sky explodes in a burst of white light and a metallic screech. His headache returns, like a tidal wave, but hot, like boiling water washing over him. The wind rises and the house shakes. Kyle runs for the stairs.
* * * *
"Dinner time,” says Aftershave as he yanks Kyle upright. “You have to be in shape tomorrow to see the inspector."
Kyle looks at the plate of cold macaroni and chunks of spam thrust at him. He isn't hungry, though he knows his body needs food. He begins to eat. Slowly. With bare hands.
Not fast enough for Aftershave. The guard starts feeding him with his own bare hands. One handful, another, and another and another. All of it, says Aftershave. Down it all goes. Whole.
"A little dessert now,” says Aftershave. The guard holds a paper cup to Kyle's lips, tilted up. Way up. Sweetened apple sauce flows into his mouth and nostrils, down his chin and neck.
"My, my,” says Aftershave, “for a restaurant owner your table manners are pretty bad. What would Inspector M say?"
M, thinks Kyle. The name sounds as if it came from some dumb spy novel. Inspector M? Of course it's M, Kyle realizes. He is now sure that he knows who denounced him.
But dinner isn't over yet. It's a dry cracker that Aftershave is forcing down Kyle's throat now. Coarse on his gums and tongue, and thick as it goes down. All of it, Aftershave orders. Kyle gags. Chew, yells Aftershave. No crumbs, you slob. Swallow. Followed by cold water. Kyle drinks willingly. At least a liter.
"A little after-dinner exercise?” says Aftershave, dragging Kyle out of the cage. “Walk!” the guard orders, shaking his club.
Kyle walks, but not for hours. For minutes only before Aftershave begins yelling.
"Run."
And a few minutes later: “Down. It's time for some push ups."
Kyle begins. Up and down. Up and down. Along with the stinging of his wrists and ankles, now come cramps in his stomach. Four, five, six...
"Ass down,” yells Aftershave.
A hard whack from the club lands square on Kyle's butt.
...seven, eight...
"Lower,” yells the guard.
Kyle takes another blow from the club, across his back this time. And another and another.
He's down on his stomach now, rolls over on his side, draws his knees up to his chest. He doesn't even try to cry out.
The blows keep falling. Kyle covers his head with his arms.
Out, out. Tears burn Kyle's face. Up and out come the macaroni and spam, the applesauce and all the rest, in a pool next to Kyle's face.
Out, out, out, Kyle cries silently into his head. The red door. The back gate. Open. Out. Get out. Marty, David, Carson, get out. Out before it's too late. Out before they do this to you too. Run.
"Aw, not feeling so good,” says the guard.
And the blows on Kyle's back keep coming.
Out, out. Laura, Yolanda, Randy. Out. Out of my life, before I bring this on you too. Go. The restaurant, Laura, it's yours now. You'll need it to support the children. I hope they let you keep it. And Yolanda, you'll get into university, I know, and you'll have a brilliant career. You don't need me. Randy too, you'll do just fine, son. You see, Randy, I'm in deep trouble. But try to understand what people do. And why they do it.
The blows continue.
* * * *
Kyle wakes, lying face down on his plank. The building is dark and silent. His back feels like a
single burning and bleeding welt. He doesn't remember being brought back into his cage.
He tries to listen to the attic. Not a sound. He accesses the observation room, but finds it empty. He waits a moment. Maybe someone's still up there, though he hopes not. A moment goes by, but he feels no sign of anyone. He'll go up and see for himself.
The apartment looks much the same, and the air feels fresh and cool. The bedroom doors are all open, the living room, the terrace and swimming pool—nothing unusual. Peaceful. Nobody there at all.
Kyle takes off his shackles. They come off easily. How so? Of course, up here they're only virtual. He brought them with him. Why didn't he think to do that on his previous visit?
The only difference in the apartment is the red door. It stands ajar at the end of its hallway. Kyle feels a draft coming.
He pulls the door fully open. It leads to a porch, he sees, and beyond that to someone's front garden, with an ordinary city street in the distance. Dawn is breaking and Kyle sees cars moving, hears the sounds of a town waking up. A normal town? With normal people living normal lives? All virtual? Were the men given an address to go to? A backup haven?
On the terrace Kyle sees the back gate. Shut. Perhaps they didn't go out this way. It opens easily. The sun has risen further now, but the morning light is still gray. The air is cool, but the day will be warm.
Kyle follows a forest path that winds down a brushy slope, with pines and birches and poplars all about. A small lake appears at the foot of a mountain.
Kyle sheds his putrid jumpsuit and steps into the cool water. At first it stings his chafed and bleeding ankles, but soon feels soothing. He falls forward and breaks into a crawl. Far out from the shore he swims, letting the water move swiftly over him, carrying away the stink of sweat, urine and curdled milk. In the middle of the lake, in way over his depth, he treads the water. The movement of his arms and legs feels good. He turns over and does a back stroke towards the shore.
Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #213 Page 9
