Liberation Day - A Thorn Byrd Novel

by Dustin Stevens

Icy needles traversed the length of Thorn’s body, the last of his nervous system fighting to maintain itself. They jabbed at his skin in an uneven pattern, working at his body with unrelenting persistence.

  Standing chest deep in a pool of frigid water, all color had long since drained from his skin. Beneath the surface his form shined with a ghostly pallor, a striking contrast to the dark blue bottom.

  Across from him, red numbers on a digital thermometer told him the water was thirty-nine degrees, his entire form pulled in as tight as possible in an effort to perverse even the tiniest bit of body heat.

  “How...much...longer?” Thorn muttered, pushing the words out one at a time, his mouth moving no more than a millimeter as he spoke.

  Kneeling beside the thermometer was Ingram, a stopwatch in his hand, a whistle hanging down from his neck. “Just a couple more minutes, then you can go home and rest.”

  Under different circumstances, scads of angry retorts would have flooded through Thorn’s mind, all with increasing animosity. As it was, he stood hunched forward at the waist, his body shivering uncontrollably, the cold sapping his ability to hold a thought on anything beyond the icy hell he was in.

  “I know you’re miserable,” Ingram said, his body poised along the edge of the pool. “Hell, I feel miserable just watching you go through this.”

  The words barely registered with Thorn. He didn’t bother to respond.

  “Right now,” Ingram continued, “it’s the most important thing we can do. We need to know how much you can endure and we need you to know how much you can endure.”

  Growing up, his father had regaled him with stories of military initiation weeks, rites of passage designed to weed out those unable to persevere. Six years before, he had gone through a pared back version himself, avoiding the worst of it when opting to go to college instead of SEAL training. What those events had taught Thorn was they had nothing to do with training, but were rather the world’s most intense stress test.

  Apparently his new employer felt the need to call upon similar measures.

  Since leaving Mt. Auburn Cemetery, Thorn had not ate or slept. His entire world had been reduced to a timeless environment, a training center with no clocks and no windows. Somewhere between bouts of being thrust into cold pools and hot saunas he had lost all semblance of the hour, focusing only on the next round of calisthenics before him.

  At times, he worked under blinding overhead lights. During others, he operated in complete darkness.

  If breaking him down was their goal, they had nearly succeeded. He was exhausted, he was overwhelmed, and he was hurting.

  Across from him, Ingram held the stopwatch out, his lips moving as he silently counted off the last few seconds.

  “Time!” he called, tossing a towel at Thorn’s head, the warm cotton almost burning his skin. “Very impressive. Might not mean much, but very few have made it as far as you just did.”

  Thorn didn’t respond as he trudged to the side of the pool, his numb legs moving just inches at a time, his feet never leaving the tile floor. He came to a stop along the side and attempted to flail an arm over the edge before Ingram grabbed hold, wresting his stiff form out. A wave of ice and water came with him as he rolled onto the deck, his limbs extended in front of him, too rigid to move.

  Tufts of gray fog drifted into the edge of Thorn’s vision as Ingram pulled a rolling chair over and placed it beside him. Putting his feet just above either of Thorn’s shoulders, he hooked his hands under his armpits, hefting him to a seated position.

  “Come on, let’s get you into the showers before hypothermia sets in.”

  Thorn wanted to tell him it was too late, but his jaw refused to work as he was lifted into the chair, his body forcing the bottom down several inches as he fell into it. The moment he was seated, Ingram rolled him on toward the locker room, tracks of water following them along the dry ground.

  At no point did Thorn offer to aid or hinder the assistance in any way. Crossing his arms over his torso, he pulled himself into a ball, his teeth chattering, his entire body quivering. He remained that way as Ingram rolled him straight into the showers, placing him between two showerheads and turning them both on.

  The first drops of water felt like fire against his skin, the spray washing over him. Still he remained motionless as it did so, staring at the wall, not yet even bothering to check the status of his fingers and toes.

  After a few minutes, Ingram stepped forward and adjusted the dials, the new temperature again setting his skin ablaze.

  There was no way for Thorn to know how long he spent in the showers, though his best guess was somewhere north of an hour. It took three temperature adjustments from Ingram before he regained feeling enough to begin doing it himself, remaining seated in the chair and raising it incrementally to a degree or two below scalding.

  Not until his skin glowed bright pink did he begin to move his extremities, his body protesting as blood forced its way back into his capillaries.

  Ingram was waiting for him in the locker room as he emerged, tossing him a towel as Thorn stood shivering without the benefit of the hot water, droplets dotting the floor around him.

  “Take as much time as you need. Your clothes are clean and a car is waiting outside to take you home as soon as you’re ready. Food will be there when you arrive.”

  “Where are you headed?” Thorn asked, a scowl on his face, his voice relaying the same.

  “South, to HQ. I need to get my end of things set up before our first assignment.”

  Thorn nodded. “Does this mean I passed?”

  Ingram paused and considered the question before simply saying, “I’ll see you soon,” and leaving without another word.

  Ten minutes later, an older man with short gray hair nodded as Thorn fell into the backseat and the car pulled away. The sky overhead indicated night was coming, by Thorn’s best guess two days having passed since he’d last been outside. He watched with detachment as they navigated the thin evening traffic, winding through residential neighborhoods before coming to a stop.

  Shifting his focus to the house in front of them, Thorn’s eyebrows pushed together in confusion. “Where are we?”

  “Your new home,” the driver answered, his tone relaying extreme boredom. “Your dog and your possessions are waiting for you.”

  A flash of concern passed through him at the thought of Abby inside alone. Ingram had told him she would be taken care of when they first departed the cemetery, though no mention of her had been made since.

  “Your keys,” the driver said, handing them over the front seat, prompting Thorn from his thoughts, urging him to exit the car. Offering only a grunt in response, Thorn accepted them and climbed out, the car pulling away the moment his feet touched the front lawn.

  Before him stood a two-story structure built entirely from brick. A half dozen oversized windows were spread across the front façade, light spilling out, casting long shadows across the ground. In a day or two Thorn would have reams of questions to ask his new boss, but for the time being all he could think of was the deep-set weariness gripping him.

  The scene inside was much the same as out, the space equipped with hardwood floors and furniture pieces of a simple design. Swinging the door shut behind him, he was greeted by the sound of toenails, Abby jogging toward him, body twisting with delight. Side by side they surveyed the downstairs together, finding a small bedroom, an office, and a bathroom on one side of the house offset by an expansive living room and kitchen on the other.

  A row of wooden stairs jutted out from the wall opposite the living room and he ascended to find the entire floor to be a master suite, outfitted with an oversized bed and a sweeping bathroom.

  Seeing the bed before him, the profound exhaustion within again pawed at Thorn. “Five minutes,” he mumbled, forcing himself back down the stairs and into the kitchen, finding his dinner waiting for him on the stove. He ate standing at the kitchen counter, taking in food in great bites, washing it down with G
atorade from the fridge.

  True to his word, five minutes later he was back upstairs, face down on the bed, Abby curled up tight against his hip.

  Chapter Eleven