by Dima Zales
For a few minutes, I distract myself with violent revenge fantasies of what I’d do to Agent Lancaster if I got the chance. It makes me wonder if I could wind up as bloodthirsty as Joe if pushed too far.
My stomach cramps, and I strongly consider yelling about cooperation, but I can’t bring myself to do it. My anger at being put in this situation feeds something stubborn in me, something I didn’t even know I had.
I also realize the aches I was feeling have evolved into pains. I recall Agent Lancaster mentioning pain medicine. Could I be due for another dose?
To distract myself, I decide to check on my blood contents via the lab on the chip in my body. When Mitya originally made Einstein work with this technology, I pair coded with him and saw how he used the special API that gives direct access to the chip’s outputs.
Loading the AROS IDE, I begin coding.
Coding without a brain boost is much harder than I ever imagined, especially with the distraction of pain, my growing hunger, and the overwhelming need to use the bathroom. The app I want to put together is completely no frills—just a little screen that will show the findings of the micro-laboratory in plain text. Given all my handicaps, what would have been a ten-minute project takes me what feels like two hours.
The good news is that the coding effort somewhat distracts me from my troubles. The bad news is what I learn upon completing the project. There are indeed small traces of oxycodone and acetaminophen in my blood. That means they gave me some Percocet—a drug consisting of that combo. The last time I used this pain medicine, it worked on me for about four hours before I needed another dose, but that was when I was dealing with a toothache. Assuming they gave me the dose in the helicopter when Einstein told me it was 6:48 p.m., and since it’s now 11:20 p.m. according to Precious 3, I need another dose. Otherwise, I’ll be in worse pain soon. I guess the pain might be part of the point Agent Lancaster is trying to make.
What’s even worse is that I also have bisacodyl in my blood. Bisacodyl is a laxative that the doctors gave my mom after her accident, and its presence in my blood means one of two things. Option one, my captors are genuinely worried about me having constipation as a side effect from Percocet. When I took Percocet for that toothache, I did experience constipation. Option two, the likelier one, is that they’re using the pretext of option one to engineer a deeply humiliating situation for me.
Determined not to give the bastards the satisfaction of seeing me squirm, I try to think of some solutions. One simple idea arrives right away. It’s nighttime, so I could try sleeping. Hopefully, the bisacodyl can’t do its job while I’m unconscious, but even if it does, at least I won’t be aware of it happening.
I close my eyes and do my best to even out my breathing.
My eyelids grow heavy, and I’m gladly slipping into oblivion when a brain-shattering noise jolts me awake.
I cringe and curse the bindings for preventing me from cupping my ears. The hellish noise sounds like a giant is drilling through a mountain. To my concussed brain, this experience is similar to having a chainsaw buzzing inside my head.
“Stop,” I yell with my exhausted vocal cords. “I won’t sleep if you don’t want me to.”
The noise doesn’t stop.
They’re purposely torturing me. I realize that now. This drilling is to stop me from sleeping—not so different from the infamous “enhanced interrogation techniques” used on terrorists. Lancaster claims he’s a government agent, and he let slip that he’s part of a task force. Is the government allowed to torture civilians? Or is this treatment a sign that forces more sinister than Uncle Sam are holding me captive? For all I know, Russian KGB/SVR might have me because they want the Brainocyte technology—or as payback for what happened in Russia a few months ago. If that’s true, I might never want to cooperate, since the SVR wouldn’t keep me around after I told them whatever it is they need to know. Alternatively, could these people be a part of some private organization? Could my half-brother be doing this to me because he learned of my role in our deceased father’s fate?
On second thought, a Russian connection is kind of a long shot. They had that helicopter—something too high-profile for an intelligence organization from another nation. Lancaster’s English is flawless, and he’s either an award-winning actor or really a government agent. It’s possible that torture is allowed under certain anti-terrorism laws, or else they have plausible deniability for everything. They could say, “Well, he was hurt, so we had to provide medical help, and we had to use the catheter and everything else. He was in danger, so we hid him from his foes. Cell phone signals are crappy in our hideout, so we couldn’t let him call his lawyer—or anyone. Oh, and we had to do some last-minute construction work around our secret lair, hence the drilling from hell.”
Remembering the drilling brings me violently back into the present, and before I recall how bad of an idea it is, I throw up. Lucky for me, I just dry-heave. Having no food in my stomach is at least good for something.
Acting almost on instinct, I start the Music app in my head and bless the day I decided it should have a feature to play music from my phone on top of playing music from my cloud collection. Unfortunately, my phone’s music library is all workout music. I set it up this way so I could hook my phone up to the dojo’s speaker system on the days Gogi felt like fighting to music. The shuffle feature gives me a song called “One” by Metallica, and the guitar riffs completely mask the drilling noise, as Brainocytes deliver sound directly to my brain, overruling input from my ears. Though this song is infinitely preferable to the drilling, the irony is that this kind of music was used as an enhanced interrogation technique that involved loud bursts of metal music, including songs by Metallica. The key difference is that I like this music and I feel more in control, given that I can change the song if I feel like it or return to the drilling sounds if I start to feel masochistic. The effect is the same as what my captors intended, though.
I can forget about sleep.
After an hour, the lab on the chip informs me all traces of pain meds are out of my system—something I already knew based on how much the pain has worsened. The bisacodyl is still there and working, though, and out of all the hurts, my stomach is the worst. It feels like a creature from Alien is slowly growing inside me, preparing to burst out.
I kill some time by figuring out if I can write something that will work like the Relief app. Though Brainocytes don’t have the computing power to run an app so complex, maybe I can use Precious 3’s hardware to do the heavy lifting? Thinking about it more, I see two insurmountable issues. First, without the brain boost, I’m less capable as a programmer, and this kind of app will require finesse. Second, and this is more critical, I lack the resources to guide me when it comes to affecting the right parts of the brain in the correct way. I could easily end up stimulating the pain center of my brain, or give myself seizures.
Oh well, at least thinking about the app distracted me for a few minutes and briefly gave me the illusion that I had some control over my fate.
After another half hour of stomach agony, I wonder how bad it would be if I relieved myself right here in the bed. I mean, yes, it would be disgusting beyond belief and humiliating, but it should make the cramps from hell go away and hopefully make it unpleasant for Lancaster to be in the room with me when he comes back.
I remain strong for another hour before my body takes the decision out of my hands and the inevitable happens.
Babies cry when they do this to themselves, and I totally understand why. It’s an extremely unpleasant set of sensations, both physically and emotionally. I’m on the verge of shedding a few tears fueled by self-pity, but I don’t want to give Agent Lancaster the satisfaction of thinking this treatment broke me. In fact, if Lancaster’s idea was to damage my will so I would start babbling information at his whim, I feel like he accomplished the reverse. I find solace in my anger, and it makes me resolved to not utter a single word when the asshole inevitably returns to speak to me a
gain.
To stay semi-sane, I replicate my phone’s screen in a big AROS window and launch the Chess app. With the brain boost, beating the in-game AI was so easy I gave this app a low rating in the app store after I first installed it. In my current state, the game gets its revenge as it defeats me twice in a row. My only excuse for losing is that thinking while in pain and trying not to breathe air is as difficult as it sounds.
I’m halfway through another match when the door opens and Agent Lancaster strides in.
I turn off the music blazing in my mind and find that the drilling sound is gone. The quietude envelops my ears with pure pleasure—until Agent Lancaster steps up to me and ruins it by speaking.
“Hello again, Mr. Cohen,” the object of my hatred says. “I hope we can have an adult conversation this time.”
Chapter Eighteen
Though I’m thirsty and my mouth is dry, I somehow gather enough saliva to spit at Agent Lancaster. The spittle flies across the distance between us and hits him square in the eye—a lucky shot.
The agent leaps forward and slaps me across the face. The sting is sharp, and my eyes water.
However, having him hit me is inspiring. It makes my boiling anger turn into a plan that might allow me to get even. Before I fully formulate the plan or get a chance to put it into motion, I see Agent Lancaster’s face contort from anger to confusion to disgust. He must’ve registered the smell, and maybe he thinks he smells my reaction to his bitch slap. Does he think I’m such a weak coward? I sure hope so, because that would aid my half-formed plan.
Before I can blink, Lancaster storms out of the room and slams the heavy door shut with enough force to break a weaker doorframe. I wonder if he’s upset with himself for reacting so strongly to my provocation or if he’s that pissed at me. The second option would be bad for my newly hatched plan.
The plan is simple. I’ll pretend to cooperate enough to get them to take off the restraints, and then, when I get the chance, I’ll attack Lancaster and attempt to damage him using the skills Gogi taught me. Yes, it won’t allow me to escape this place, and it’ll probably lead to worse treatment, but it’ll give me the satisfaction of revenge that I desperately crave. Of course, part of me knows I’ll be much more comfortable in the interim as I go through the pretense, and an even more skeptical part of me worries that I’ve rationalized genuine cooperation under the guise of fake one.
I’m dead tired, but I don’t dare close my eyes for fear that they’ll turn the buzzing on again. I’m enjoying the silence too much for that. I’m convinced Lancaster will retaliate against me for the spitting incident, and I hope I’ll get the chance to convince him I’m ready to cooperate before that happens.
After what feels like many hours—though according to my phone, only twenty minutes have passed—the door opens again.
Two people wearing scrubs come inside. They’re carrying a tray of objects I have trouble making out. Just like earlier, the medical people hide their faces behind surgical masks, and when I try to look them in the eye, they avoid my gaze.
The larger of the two holds a huge syringe to my neck and says in a deep male voice, “We’re just here to wash you and make sure you don’t starve. If you move a muscle, I’ll be forced to use this.” Matching actions to words, he pricks my skin with the giant needle.
The smaller person, probably a woman, undoes my right wrist restraint.
I clear my throat. “I won’t fight, but can you please get me out of here? I’m being held against my will.”
The people in scrubs ignore me, and the smaller one turns me over to clean me up.
I debate fighting them despite my promise, figuring if he knocks me out, it might make the washing less embarrassing. However, I decide to tough it out so it’ll be more believable when I claim I’m ready to cooperate as part of my new plan.
When the humiliation is complete, the smaller person ties my hand back down and reaches for something on the tray.
“Don’t move.” The male’s eyes dart from me to his partner as he gives a little nod. “We have one more thing we need to do.”
The smaller one is holding a long tube in his or her hand and brings it closer to my face. I recall the guy saying something about making sure I don’t starve and realize what it must be.
“Wait.” My voice rises. “I’d rather starve.”
“It’s just a nasogastric tube,” says the smaller one, her soft voice confirming that she’s a woman. “You need food, and all other methods for getting it into you are more invasive.”
“I can eat the fucking food with my mouth,” I snap. This device, the NG tube, was installed in Mom’s nose after her horrible accident, and I was horrified just seeing it done to someone else. When my words don’t seem to have an effect, I yell, “I refuse this treatment! There’s no medical necessity for it. None at all. You hear me? I don’t want this thing!”
My raised voice is half for them and half for the benefit of a hypothetical listening device. The tube moves closer to my nose, and I squirm in place. The restraints leave burns on my wrists as I struggle. Blinding anger returns in full force, and without realizing what I’m saying, I scream, “I don’t care how much you hide your faces! It won’t help. I’ll find out who you are, and I’ll end your careers!”
That seems to discomfit the woman, but I realize I made a mistake if my plan was to maintain the pretense of cooperation.
“I think you should give him that shot,” the woman says, though I see a glimmer of doubt and perhaps even sympathy in her eyes.
“Well, I think you should do your job,” the man tells her sternly. To me, he says, “If you move around, the tube could go into your lungs, and that would cause a number of problems, not to mention you’ll make the whole process more uncomfortable.”
“Exhale,” the woman says and sticks the tip of the tube into my left nostril.
Panicking, I loudly exhale as my heartbeat accelerates so fast the nearby monitoring equipment rings in alarm.
“Try to relax,” she says and slowly inserts the tube into my nose.
At first, the feeling reminds me of getting water in my nose while also getting a giant brain freeze from a Slurpee, but multiplied a thousand-fold. Then a burning that feels like I’m snorting a pepper-spray-covered porcupine sears my sinuses.
“Don’t move,” she says, but it’s too late. I pull my head away and rip the tube out of my nose, but even with it out, the burning is still there.
“Please, don’t do that again,” I croak. “Just tell Agent Lancaster I’m ready to tell him anything he wants.”
The woman looks at the man, but he shakes his head.
“I’ll try the other nostril,” she says without looking at me. “Please, try not to pull it out this time.”
Since I know what’s about to happen, the dread of having it happen to my other nostril is impossibly worse than my original fear. She begins the insertion, and the process hurts worse than the first time. It takes all my willpower not to pull my head away.
The tube clears the back of my nose and spreads the burning downward into my throat. My gag reflex kicks in, and I can’t take it anymore. In a swift motion, I pull my head away and rip the tube out of my nose—an action that hurts nearly as much as the insertion.
I know I can’t handle another attempt. Like a cornered animal, I feel myself getting desperately dangerous. The woman must not realize my state, because her hands are still close to my face.
In a blur of motion, I crane my neck, jut my head forward, and sink my teeth into the woman’s left pinky as hard as I can. The woman screams like a pig family during slaughter, but instead of letting go of her flesh, I clench my teeth so hard that my jaw spasms in pain.
At some point in the past, I heard an urban myth that a finger is as easy to bite through as a carrot. I now know that story is false. I can tell I won’t be able to snap the finger in half as I originally intended, but at least I did a lot of damage to it.
I consider doing a zombi
e-like ripping motion with my head to further hurt the finger, but then I feel the needle go into my skin. The oblivion comes almost instantly, allowing one last thought—a hope that they’ll insert the NG tube while I’m unconscious.
Chapter Nineteen
I wake up but don’t open my eyes, figuring I should get my bearings first.
According to Precious 3, it’s 9:01 a.m. on November 16. I was out for eight hours. Despite getting the rest I was craving, I feel sleep deprived for some reason. Maybe the drug that induced my unconsciousness didn’t provide any real sleep benefits?
I also feel new pains. My left eye is swollen. Someone, probably the woman I hurt, must’ve punched me in the face. Additionally, there’s the most horrid sensation in my throat—the cursed tube. I try to swallow and instantly gag. Despite my conscious wishes, I try to swallow again, and it’s just as unpleasant.
On the plus side—if it’s even a plus—I don’t feel any signs of hunger, so the tube has fulfilled that part of its purpose. It was used to deliver food into my stomach.
To relax, I try breathing slowly and evenly, hoping to forget about the obstacle in my throat, but I might as well be trying to forget my name.
“Are you awake, Mr. Cohen?” asks a new voice. “My name is Agent Pugh.”
I open my eyes, and once they’ve adjusted to the light, I see a woman standing in front of me. She’s wearing a pantsuit and holding one hand behind her back. Her face is extremely symmetrical, except her green eyes are much too big in proportion to her features. There’s sympathy in her eyes as she says, “I work with Agent Lancaster, but he doesn’t know I’m here.”
Bullshit, I think to myself, but out loud, I croak, “Help me.” The tube in my throat makes my attempt to talk extremely uncomfortable, and my eyes water to the point where she might think I’m crying.
“That’s why I’m here.” She takes out a napkin and wipes my face. “I’m here to help you.”