The Brigade

by H. A. Covington

  Zucchino and Annette strolled down the sidewalk arm in arm toward the door of the pub with the Irish music spilling out into the street, and the reporter was already into what Annette presumed was his standard opening monologue for putting the moves on starry-eyed female journalism majors, an art in which he seemed quite practiced. My God, this idiot really doesn’t have a clue, does he? she thought as she walked beside him with a silly grin on her face. It hasn’t even occurred to him to wonder how I just popped up beside him. Is it just American hubris, or is he really that stupid? She saw the van slide up in front of the pub, and she understood that Jackson had decided to make his move early, which was fine with her. Great! Now I don’t have to watch this asshole get drunk for two hours and try to slide his hand under my blouse! Jackson pulled the Tundra up to the curb a couple of spaces behind the van, quietly got out and fell in behind them. He pulled out his phone and dialed. Annette could hear him speaking out loud behind her. “Hey, dudes, I’m downtown, just heading into Paddy Grogan’s. You guys get your asses in gear and let’s party down!”

  The rear doors of the van flew open and two men in ski masks jumped out. “What the . . . ?” gasped Zucchino, but before he could say anything else Annette shoved him off the sidewalk and into the waiting arms of the two Volunteers. Jackson ran past her, slugged Zucchino viciously in the kidneys, followed up with a rabbit punch, and then the other two picked him up bodily and hurled him into the van. The two masked men jumped in after him and slammed the doors shut. Annette couldn’t tell if one of them was Eric, or if Eric was driving. The van pulled away from the curb smoothly and easily.

  “Come on!” said Jackson. They both jumped in the Tundra and Jackson pulled out, following the van. Annette slid down as far as she could in the passenger seat, pulled off the black wig, shucked off her blouse and pulled a dark blue sweater over her head, then pulled a baseball cap over her blond hair. She quickly wiped the makeup off her face with a towelette. When she sat up her appearance was pretty well altered. The whole thing had taken place in a matter of seconds, and when Jackson checked his rear view mirror there was no sign of any pursuit. He put a police scanner onto his dashboard and turned it on, but he heard no unusual chatter on the FATPO frequency. He called the van and spoke briefly. “They’ve got him restrained,” he told Annette. “I need to follow them for a while to make sure they won’t need any interference run, but we’ll pull over in a bit, you and Tom can get out and catch a bus back to where you left your car.”

  “Sir, I’d like to come along if that’s permissible,” said Annette. “I might be able to help.”

  “I doubt it,” said Jackson, looking at her. “You sure? It’s not going to be very pleasant. You might see and hear some things you don’t want to.”

  “My Dad always told me never to do anything if I couldn’t live with the consequences,” said Annette. “I need to follow through, sir. I think it’s a necessary part of my training.”

  Jackson flipped open his phone. “Let me talk to Tom. Yeah, Tom, Becky wants to stick with us for the sociable part of the evening, so she won’t need a ride home. How about you? Your call. I’ll tell you what I told her, it ain’t gonna be sweetness and light. I can put you outside watching the vehicles if you want.” He was silent for a moment. “That’s what I thought you’d say. Okay, see you there.”

  There turned out to be a large garage bay in a self-storage facility in McMinnville. They were met by a man in overalls who had a few whispered words with the lieutenant. “Give us a ring on the bell if anyone shows up who’s got no business here,” Annette heard Jackson tell him. “Come on.” They got out of the truck, and Eric Sellars got out of the driver’s side of the van. Jackson opened the side door into the large room with a key. He turned on the lights and Annette and Eric saw that the walls and ceiling had been fitted with cardboard egg cartons nailed tightly together like tiles. “Soundproofing,” he told them. He went to one corner and pulled out a folding table, which he set up in the middle of the room. He placed a metal folding chair on one side and a much heavier, old-fashioned wooden chair with arm rests on the other side. Jackson then took a large work light on a stand, plugged it in, and brought it to just behind the metal chair. He then went over to a large metal shelving unit standing along one wall, and looked over several items on the shelf. Then he went over to Annette and Eric.

  “All right, you know why we’ve brought this man here,” Jackson told them. “He may or may not have information involving the Army’s mission and the lives of our comrades. One of the first rules of cross-examination in a court of law is never ask a question to which you do not already know the answer, but this isn’t a courtroom and we don’t know the answer. We don’t even know if there is one, or if he was just blowing smoke in the ear of a woman as amoral as himself as part of one of these people’s sad little mating rituals. But we will never admit this to him at any time during the forthcoming process. One of the rules is never take ‘I don’t know’ for an answer. Everybody knows something, even if they don’t know they know it. We have to find out what he knows, all of what he knows, and we have to do it fast. This falls into the ticking time bomb category. If he refuses to tell us what he knows, or if he is obviously lying, then we must compel him to speak. That does not mean just beating the crap out of him, or cutting off his ears just for the hell of it, or going medieval on his ass just because we don’t like him. Our objective here is to force him to tell us what he knows, nothing more and nothing less. I will use only such force as I deem necessary, and since so far as we know he’s no worse than most of his kind and not as bad as some, my intention at this moment is eventually to release him alive, after his information checks out and when it seems safe to do so.” Annette gave a little sigh. “Does that relieve your mind, Becky?”

  “Yes, sir, it does,” she admitted.

  “There is no shame in that,” said Jackson gently. “You’re a soldier, and your duty demands that you have to do crappy things sometimes. There’s no law that says you have to like it. To continue, the secret to getting information quickly is not torture, but the fear of torture. With Americans, anyway. Muslims are a different story. The CIA, Mossad, Blackwater and others do really vile things to Muslim prisoners, but Muslims have a genuine faith in their God and a pride in their nation and their heritage that allows them to withstand techniques that would send an American mad in a matter of seconds. Americans can dish it out, but they can’t take it. Although there are some individual exceptions, such as certain white military officers who still hold to the old code of honor, on the whole Americans are very soft and weak, both in body and in character. Especially media people. I’m not anticipating too much trouble with Mr. Zucchino tonight. He may turn out to be one of the exceptions, but I rather doubt it. You’d think that Americans’ weakness would make them easy subjects, but actually it’s rather the reverse. They’re too fragile and brittle. They break easily, but they don’t just break, they shatter. Pain literally sends them out of their mind in hysterics or into a kind of fugue state, and it becomes impossible to get anything out of them.”

  “I remember when we first met, you said if we were ever captured, all the Army asks for is twenty-four hours,” Eric reminded him.

  “That’s correct,” agreed Jackson. “Although I’m proud to say that many of our captured comrades have held out much longer than that. The best way to do this with someone like Zucchino is to hurt him just enough so his mind can anticipate much worse, terrify him to the point where he will do anything to avoid more pain. There are in fact certain things we won’t do, or at least I won’t do. Sexual stuff, rape or threats of rape against women or sodomy against men, threats of stripping them and showing them naked on the internet, that kind of crap. That is what Americans do to their captives in their prisons. Not us. We are better than that, or at least the Volunteers under my command are. I don’t like some of these stories I’ve been hearing out of Idaho about O. C. Oglevy’s crew. But sometimes we have to make a prisoner
think we might do it. I mention this because whatever you hear me say tonight, you have to bear in mind why I’m saying it.”

  “What if this guy decides to hang tough and he just plain won’t tell us jack?” asked Eric.

  “Then we hurt him,” said Jackson. “Okay, the prisoner will be restrained in the wooden chair there. I will be seated in the metal chair. I will do the actual interrogation. I will be smoking cigarettes, which is something I normally don’t do, but not only can they be handy to make a point with, but smoke in a prisoner’s nose and face and lungs increases his discomfort, especially when he is gagged.” Jackson walked over to the shelf and picked up some dark woolen blobs. “Here are some extra masks. Wear them. I don’t want him getting a look at anyone’s face but mine. Becky, you stand over here in the corner and maintain complete silence. I’d rather he not even see you. It could be this idiot hasn’t even figured out you set him up, and if so I’d like to keep it that way, so you will say nothing during the entire procedure. Just observe. If it looks like it’s going to go on for a long time I want you both to leave, take the Tundra and get back to your car, because you guys are still on the surface, and I don’t want you gone for too long or your time unaccounted for.”

  “Our folks think we spend our evenings in a no-tell motel or some kind of love nest on campus,” explained Eric, “But they worry about us, and they ask that we both make sure we’re home by midnight.”

  “Well, no need to disturb them on account of this piece of journalistic dogshit. Tom, you stand behind him, sort of looming, so he’ll know you’re there, but you let me or when necessary one of the Things do the talking. Observe, and learn. Both of you may have to do this yourselves one day, as awful as that sounds. Let’s go get our guest of honor.”

  A few minutes later Dawson Zucchino was sitting in the wooden chair, his torso stripped to his T-shirt, his arms strapped to the rests with plastic ties and his legs melded to the legs of the chair by heavy Velcro cuffs. His mouth was sealed with duct tape. His eyes were bulging and staring in terror. Three masked men loomed behind him; Zucchino turned his head and strained his neck trying to see them. Jackson sat in front of him at the table, the standing light behind him aimed right in the bound man’s face. He calmly lit a cigarette and plunked the pack down on the table. Jackson spoke. His voice was quiet and conversational. “Mr. Zucchino, my name is Lieutenant William Jackson of the Northwest Volunteer Army. I am the commander of A Company, First Portland Brigade. Did you pay attention enough in your briefings or whatever the hell they gave you, so that you recognize me?” Zucchino nodded. “Good, that will save us some time, since you already know that I am not a nice man. I think you can guess why you are here. You have some information regarding impending events in Clatsop County, Oregon, which you are going to share with us. Information regarding those thousand or so FATPO gun thugs who have been sitting on their asses down there in Oakland. Information regarding the current whereabouts and intentions of a blue-gum nigger named Rollins. Before I give you the floor, I should warn you that I do not want to hear any crap coming out of your mouth about how we can’t do this to you, yadda yadda yadda. This isn’t your country, it is ours. Your people do not rule here any longer. We do, and we can and we will do any damned thing we want to you. Are you quite clear on this?” Zucchino simply stared in horror over his duct-taped mouth.

  One of the Things (Eric couldn’t tell them apart with their masks on) reached down and twisted Zucchino’s ear savagely, making him bawl weirdly through the duct tape. “Your ears working, asshole?” said the Thing. “You’re not answering the lieutenant, so I guess they ain’t working. Lemme adjust them for you.” He twisted the other ear and Zucchino jerked and writhed and moofed and mooed.

  “Did you understand what I just said to you, Mr. Zucchino? Nod your head, please.” Jackson repeated politely. Zucchino nodded his head wildly. “Good. Now, the second thing you need to understand is that you will tell us every single last scrap of information and knowledge you have about an impending federal attack on the Astoria, Oregon area. Lying to us, withholding information from us, trying to play us or deceive us is not an option here. Before you attempt any such game playing, you need to ask yourself: would you be here if we didn’t already know something? Something about the Fatties and something about you? This is the deal. Very simple, no mystery here. I’m going to take that tape off, and you are going to tell me everything, let me repeat that, everything you know about this coming invasion of our country by a horde of American scum, and every word of it will be God’s diamond truth. If you do that, and we confirm that you have told us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, then you will eventually find yourself back in Los Angeles in your cubicle or whatever, in front of your computer, tapping away at a string of lies about your long ordeal of horror at the hands of the dreaded NVA. You might even win a Pulitzer Prize and go on the talk show circuit. If you lie to us in the slightest respect, then someday perhaps twenty, or fifty, or a hundred years from now, in the Northwest American Republic of the future, some farmer or hunter or park ranger is going to unearth the remains of a rotting skeleton from a hole in the ground way out in the woods, and you will end up lying in a plastic storage tray in some basement marked ‘unidentified remains, possibly from War of Independence.’ Until somebody finally decides your bones are taking up too much space, and throws them away. Are you internalizing all this, Mr. Zucchino?”

  Zucchino was shaking like he had the ague, but he nodded. Jackson in turn nodded and one of the masked Things ripped the duct tape from the prisoner’s mouth. The other Thing moved away, and Eric stepped up to take his place beside the bound man in the chair. The Thing went over to the metal shelf, and took down two objects resting there. One was a flat block of green wood with a curved blade on a hinge attached to the side, a simple school or office paper cutter. He handed it to Jackson, who placed it on the table. The second was a nozzle with a pistol grip, and below the trigger hung a small blue plastic bottle of propane. Jackson handed the Thing his lighter, and the Thing turned on the nozzle and lit the flame, which he then refined into a long blue pencil of heat. Zucchino stared. “Sweet Jesus! What are you going to do to me?” he mewled in a cringing voice.

  Jackson nodded at the hand torch. “FBI and Homeland Security use those puppies to castrate men,” he said conversationally. “Did you know that? Burn right through the scrotum and penis if they want it done quick, but usually they simply burn the genitalia off slowly. They call it a weenie roast, or sometimes chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Don’t worry, we’re not quite so uncivilized as that.”

  “I saw ’em do that in Iraq,” rumbled the Thing with the torch. “More’n once. I figgered on toasting your nuts for you, you lying sack of shit, but Mr. Jackson here wants to be gentlemanly about it.”

  “And how do you use something like that in a gentlemanly way?” gasped Zucchino, his journalistic training feebly re-asserting itself even through his terror.

  “We’re going to use it to cauterize the stumps on your hands after we cut off your fingers one by one, should you try lying to us,” said Jackson, lifting the blade on the guillotine suggestively. “We can’t have you bleeding to death before we finish our conversation. You may yet have to dictate your Pulitzer-winning article about your experiences this evening to somebody who still has opposing thumbs. But at least you’ll still have your family jewels. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

  “Yeah, well, I suppose I better be thankful for small favors,” said Zucchino with a hysterical little giggle. “Gotta get more pussy, although I think I’ll take a pass on that bitch you threw at me tonight.”

  Eric Sellars didn’t stop to think that he was disobeying his orders to remain a spectator; he stepped forward and with one powerful right hook he pulverized Zucchino’s mouth and many of the teeth in it. The bound man’s head snapped back with a deep groan, and blood oozed from between his lips in a crimson drool. “I hope you didn’t break his damned jaw!” sn
apped Jackson. “How the hell is he supposed to talk with no functioning mouth?”

  “Sorry, sir, I just . . .” muttered Eric, stunned himself. The second Thing leaned over and said in a low tone,

  “We push his buttons, kid. You never let him push yours!”

  “Don’t do anything like that again unless I tell you to!” Jackson ordered Eric. “Throw me one of those rags!” The Thing with the glowing hand torch pulled a long greasy rag off the shelf and tossed it to Jackson, who wiped Zucchino’s mouth with it. “You’ll live, although not long if you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head,” he told Zucchino grimly. “This young comrade took exception to your language, turd. For that matter, so did I.” He leaned over the table and shoved the lit cigarette in his hand into Zucchino’s left ear; the resulting shriek of mortal agony seemed to shake the roof. Eric understood the need for the egg-carton soundproofing now. Jackson walked around the table and grabbed Zucchino by the collar. He leaned down to the wounded man’s right ear. “You need that mouth to speak with, but you only need one ear to hear with. Now you listen to me. Our female Volunteers are the jewels in the crown of the Aryan race. We never speak disrespectfully of them, and garbage like you damned sure never does! Zack Hatfield is another jewel in our crown, one of the finest and bravest men I’ve ever known, and the Volunteers with him are our Flowers of the Forest. They are men. You are not. You are a rodent. I will not allow you to harm them by withholding information about this evil tyranny’s plots against them. You are going to tell me now, tell it all, or your hands will become nothing but charred stumps. And then we’ll start on your toes.”

  “Please, please . . .” mumbled Zucchino through his shattered mouth. Jackson ignored him, whipped out a pocket knife and cut the plastic ties holding Zucchino’s right arm and wrist bound to the chair, and jerked his hand forward onto the table, pulling out his limp little finger and placing it on the green wood beneath the raised blade of the guillotine, holding it there by force.