It had occurred to me that they might question how I could use the bucket with my hands bound behind my back, so in preparation, I had loosened my belt a notch so that I could shimmy my pants down by tugging at the waistband. I stepped into the circle of light and demonstrated. The Russian chuckled.
“You are not being so stupid as most maggots. At least you are knowing better than to shit yourself,” he said, as I pulled my pants up.
Lantern-Man placed the aforementioned device in a corner and stepped forward, brandishing his cane. “Can we get this show on the road? I have to be on watch in ten minutes.”
“Fine, fine,” the Russian said. He pointed his cane at me. “You see, we are having to punish you. You pushed my friend Mike to the ground. He is being stupid little shit, but is loyal, too. This is being a crime that we must not be letting pass.”
“Listen, all I did was-”
I was interrupted by a cane, wielded by the third man, cracking against the side of my face. Burning pain shot through my skull, nearly dropping me to my knees.
“You are not to be speaking without permission,” the Russian explained, his voice chiding, as though I were an unruly child.
It was in that moment that I knew, not thought, or felt, but knew, deep down in my bones, that I was going to kill that son of a bitch. Somehow, some way, I was going to get the Russian alone, and I was going to gut him like a fish. When I could open my eyes again, the three of them had surrounded me. The Russian looked at the other two men, smiled, and made an open-handed gesture in my direction.
They went to work.
I didn’t try to fight them, it wouldn’t have done me any good. I would only have earned myself an even worse beating.
The first few blows fell on my back and shoulders, and I let myself collapse. They kept at it, the canes lashing into my flesh like fiery rain, seeming to hit from everywhere at once. They tore into my arms, and my legs, and my back. A few blows caught me in the head, but only a few. They didn’t punch or kick me but, to be honest, I might have preferred that. The pain from each welt continued long after the blow had landed. Finally, when it felt like my whole body was engulfed in flames, and I was just about to give in to the urge to scream, the Russian’s voice cut through the haze.
“That is being enough.” His tone was uninterested, almost bored.
Rough hands sat me up, and unlocked my handcuffs. They wrenched my arms back in front of me and locked them again.
“There. Now you can to be pissing like a man again.” The Russian chuckled. “The water is being yours. You should drink it slowly.”
He tilted my face up by placing his cane under my chin. “So. Is there anything you would be liking to say? I am giving you my permission.”
“Just one question,” I croaked.
“Da?”
“What’s your name?”
He tilted his head quizzically. “Why are you to be wanting this?”
So I know what to call you when I tear your spine out through your mouth.
“So I can think of you as something other than ‘The Russian.’ ”
He stared for a moment longer, then threw his head back and laughed. The other two men chuckled nervously.
“I am to be liking you,” he said. “Perhaps you will not to be dying so quickly.”
He leaned down at the waist and lowered his voice. “Vasily. Vasily Kasikov. I am being wolf among dogs, maggot. If you want to live, you are not to be forgetting this. Da?”
With that, he turned on his heel and left, motioning for the other two men to follow. The door clanged shut, and the lock clattered into place. I slumped over onto my side and stayed that way for a long time.
*****
They brought me more water, two bottles a day I think. But it was another four days before they fed me. In the meantime, I got no less than two beatings a day. Sometimes three or four.
I got to know a few of the Legion troops that way. There were six of them, rotating in and out. Rat-Face was never one of them. Maybe Kasikov was afraid of what he might do if left alone with me. Or maybe it was the other way around, maybe he was afraid of what I might do to Rat-Face. If that was the case, then he was right to be worried.
The beatings became a routine. First would come the footsteps, then the light filtering through the door, and finally the jangling of the keys. The people carrying out the beatings did so with far less ceremony than the first group had. Two men would come in, order me to stand up, and then proceed to cane the living shit out of me. Once done, they would exit the cell and lock it behind them, usually without saying a word. Sometimes they would replace my waste bucket. Very considerate of them.
If I didn’t know what was going on, my sanity might very likely have fractured. The only thing keeping me stable was the knowledge that this wouldn’t go on forever. That sooner or later, they would drag me off somewhere to dig tunnels for them. What they were doing now, the isolation, the starvation, and the beatings, it was just a way to break down my resolve. To frighten me, and cow me into obedience. It certainly seemed to have worked on other people.
My first Legion-provided meal came at the end of my seventh day of captivity. It was some kind of stringy, roasted meat with boiled potatoes and a big bottle of water. I wolfed it down like it was filet mignon. There wasn’t much of it, but after going on an empty stomach for a full week, I was in heaven.
I didn’t realize until I had some food in my belly, and plenty of water to drink, just how foggy my mind had been for the last few days. After eating, the haze began to lift, and I could think clearly again.
From what Morrow had told me, I should expect another test sometime in the near future. Probably when they took me down into what the Legion called “the mines.” Not that they were actually digging up precious minerals, or anything like that. It was just what everyone called them. A phrase someone had coined.
Sitting there, alone in the darkness, I thought of Allison. I wondered what she was doing, and how she was holding up. I had no doubt that she must be worried about me. A tightness began to take hold in my chest, and I felt tears sting my eyes.
No, I thought. Don’t go there. Stay focused.
Shoving thoughts of Allison aside, I pondered the methods that the Legion were using to break me down. The first thing that struck me as odd was the waste bucket. Morrow hadn’t mentioned that part. Maybe it had just slipped his mind.
If the Legion really wanted to fuck with my head, why didn’t they make me wallow in my own piss and shit? Why go to that minimal effort at sanitation? The only answer I could think of was that they didn’t want me to get sick. Human waste is a breeding ground for all kinds of nasty bacteria, and getting just a little bit of it into a cut could cause a potentially lethal infection. The more I thought about that, the more the logic became clear.
They didn’t want to kill me. Didn’t want to kill anyone they captured. They wanted to keep me alive. Not that they would hesitate to kill me if I became a problem—they most certainly would. But they didn’t want a corpse on their hands if they could help it. What they wanted was someone they could mold into a marauder or, failing that, keep around for slave labor. It made sense in an awful kind of way.
I shivered, huddled further into my corner, and tried to steel myself for what lay ahead.
*****
They left me in my cell for another three days, but the beatings stopped, and they brought me two meals a day. The meals were small, never quite enough to sate the hunger gnawing at my gut, and the amount of water they gave me was barely enough to keep me functioning. More head games. Keep me thirsty, keep me hungry, keep me distracted.
The waiting ended when Kasikov showed up with Rat-Face and Tommy. I sat cross-legged in the corner as they came in, staying silent.
Rat-Face smirked. “Looks like you finally learned to keep your mouth shut.”
I ignored him, staring blankly into the distance and doing my best to look defeated. Kasikov stepped forward and shined the lantern on
me.
“You are looking better, maggot. You are not being dead, or screaming like madman. That is good. Most maggots becoming like beasts, beating walls and crawling in dirt. There is being strength in you.”
“On your feet,” Tommy said. “Kas, cuff his hands behind his back.”
I stood up and stayed quiet while they adjusted my restraints. Rat-Face looked on with a smile on his ugly mug, practically beaming with perverse delight.
“You are smelling like shit,” Kasikov muttered. He gripped my arm and pulled me toward the door.
I followed them out into the corridor, and then left at the intersection with the other three tunnels. They were taking me back to the warehouse. Along the way, I again studied the way the tunnel had been constructed.
The air in my cell had been thick, but breathable, which coincided with what Morrow had said about the Legion’s crude ventilation system. Most of the tunnels they dug were only a few feet underground, which made it a simple matter to connect pipes to the surface and hide them under the abundant foliage. I also knew that the tunnels immediately around the warehouse were much larger and better maintained than most of their other tunnels. From what Morrow had told me, compared to the mines, this place was like the Hilton.
The passageway terminated at the ladder to the warehouse, where Kasikov gripped my arm and ordered me to wait while Tommy and Rat-Face climbed to the surface. Once they had turned and trained their rifles down the ladder, the Russian unlocked my cuffs and motioned for me to climb up. At the top, they cuffed me again, and marched me toward the Legion’s living area.
As the light grew brighter, I saw a man seated at a table with two others, all dressed in combat fatigues. I didn’t recognize any of them. A bottle of whiskey sat in the middle of the table, and all three men had full glasses in front of them. Miranda sat upon one of the men’s knees, stripped completely naked. The dirt was gone from her skin, and her long blond hair hung clean and untangled down her shoulders. She kept her face blank and stayed still as the man she sat on casually fondled her breasts.
“Is this the new meat, Tommy?” he called out. The other two turned to look.
“Yes sir. Caught him snoopin’ around here ’bout a week ago. Got him broke down nice and docile.”
Keep telling yourself that, you fat piece of shit.
Tommy dragged me into the light. The man at the table looked me up and down and nodded. “He’ll do. He give you any trouble?”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Tommy replied.
The man nodded again, and turned his attention back to the girl on his lap. Now that I was up close, I could make out his features. He was older, maybe late forties or early fifties. His hair was straight and black, with the exception of a smattering of gray at the temples, and cut close to his scalp. He was taller than I am, and powerfully built. The hands he used to grope Miranda were large and strong, and square, chiseled features defined his face. After spending so much time around military types, I had learned to spot them from a mile away. This guy was definitely military.
“What do you think, Aiken?” he said, looking at the man seated across the table from him. The two of them bore a strong resemblance. Brothers, maybe?
“Pickings are getting slim around here, Lucian. We have to take what we can get.”
Yep. Definitely brothers. Even their voices sounded the same. The only way to tell them apart was that Aiken had a short, neatly trimmed beard.
Lucian flipped a hand at Tommy. “Fine, fine. The three of you can have my private stock for the week, and a couple of cases of booze. Be gentle with my property, though. I expect them to be returned in serviceable condition.”
“Thank you, sir. Very generous.” Tommy had a smile on his face when he turned and shoved me toward Kasikov. “Take this piece of shit to the mines.” He jerked a thumb toward a shack behind him. “Hurry back, though. We gonna have us a party.”
As Kasikov began leading me away, I peered over my shoulder through the dim light to see what Tommy was talking about. Inside the shack, I saw several women huddled together, all of them young, healthy, and attractive. Shackles hung from their wrists and ankles, and their faces were uniformly dull and expressionless. No light shined in their blank, staring eyes.
“Come on,” the big Russian said irritably. “You are being keeping me from my reward.”
As he dragged me toward the ladder, I heard Tommy and Rat-Face laughing lasciviously, and the soft whimpers of the women in the shack.
Bastards. Sick fucking bastards.
*****
Back in the tunnels, Kasikov led me past the corridor to the isolation cells and then left at the intersection. The tunnel was new to me, and was much narrower than the one that connected to the warehouse. The Russian had to turn his broad shoulders sideways a few times to avoid striking the support beams.
“Soon you will to be missing your cell, I am thinking,” he said, grinning. “The mines are not being so nice place.”
I kept my mouth shut and focused on not falling down. Kasikov was setting a fast pace and, with the leg irons limiting my stride, I had to run in short little steps to keep up.
As he dragged me through the darkness, the lantern in his hand only chased the inky black away for a few feet. The ground became wetter as we walked, the hard-pack of the main tunnels giving way to slick mud that threatened to send my feet flying out from under me with every step. Even Kasikov had to slow down to keep his footing. Eventually we reached a T-intersection with a crudely drawn sign hanging on the wall in front of us. Two spray-painted arrows pointed in either direction, one of them labeled “CNCTR LP,” and the other “HR AXS.”
We turned in the direction labeled “CNCTR LP,” where the tunnel became even smaller, and we both had to duck our heads to avoid hitting the support struts in the ceiling. Along the way, I thought about the writing on the sign, and what the labels meant. It reminded me of something I had seen in an Anthropology class in college.
The class had been one of those easy A’s that padded the elective requirements of countless legions of lazy college students. The instructor, being one of those professors who believed that his fieldwork was far more important than a task as menial as teaching, deferred most of the classroom time to a show called “The Naked Archeologist.” I guess the producers thought that including “Naked” in the title would make it more interesting. I don’t think it worked.
On one episode, the host—a pretentious, annoying type who, thankfully, was fully clothed—explored the history of written language. One of the most significant advancements in written language was the invention of vowels, but according to the host, this was a bad thing. He felt that written language had far more style and nuance when it consisted only of consonants. Personally, I thought the guy was full of shit. But the examples of consonant-only writing that he displayed were very much like the sign back at the intersection.
“CNCTR LP,” if said aloud, would sound remarkably close to Connector Loop. But what about “HR AXS’? “Her Axis” didn’t make any sense. Maybe it was initials? Ignoring the HR for the moment, I focused on AXS. The only word other than “axis” that fit was “access.” HR access …
Shit. HR Access. Hollow Rock Access? The town was nearly fifteen miles away. That would be a huge undertaking and, from what I had seen so far, I wasn’t sure that the Legion had that kind of manpower. At least not at this site.
By counting to sixty over and over again in my head, I estimated that it took us nearly two hours of hard walking to get where we were going. At the pace we were setting, that could have been anywhere from seven to nine miles, again confirming what Grayson Morrow had told me.
Finally, we came around a corner and I saw light up ahead of us. As we got closer, I saw that the source of the light was a set of lanterns, much like the one carried by Kasikov, all of them hanging from the ceiling. There were three men standing at the edge of the light brandishing AKs, and passing a bottle back and forth. The bottle disappeared as w
e came within shouting distance.
“Zdravstvujtye, shitworms,” the Russian shouted jovially. “I am to be having new meat for you.” He thrust me at the three men hard enough to make me lose my footing. I landed on my side in the mud at the nearest man’s feet. “You are to be chaining him and making him to work. You,” he pointed at the man who had tucked the bottle away, “be giving me that booze.”
Reluctantly, the guard handed it to him. “You are not to be drinking this shit on duty,” Kasikov said. “Are you to be forgetting that those maggots will cut your throat if you let them?”
He made a gesture to the far end of the corridor, and I craned my neck to look. Ahead of me, barely visible in the distance, were the struggling forms of at least a dozen men, all wearing chains and toiling away.
“Hey, we got this covered Kas,” one of them said.
The big Russian’s friendly demeanor vanished in an instant. His eyes went hard, and his lips curled back from his teeth as he got in the man’s face.
“Do not be telling me what you are fucking covering,” he hissed, and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, nearly lifting him off the ground. “You will to be doing what you are told, or I will to be breaking your goddamn neck.”
“Okay, okay. Shit, Kas, what the fuck?” the man said, holding his hands up in surrender.
Slowly, the Russian let him go. He looked around to each man in turn, favoring them with a wintry scowl. “You are to be taking this shit seriously. No fucking up, da?”
They all nodded, not risking speech for fear of angering the big man. A few tense moments passed before Kasikov turned on his heel and marched off back the way he came, leaving me on the ground with the three Legion troops.
One of them reached down the hauled me to my feet. “Let’s go, maggot,” he said. “You got work to do.”
I followed along down the corridor toward the clinking of chains. The light of the lanterns faded behind me, and soon, I had my first introduction to life in the mines.
Surviving the Dead 03: Warrior Within Page 24
