The Method

by Ralston, Duncan

But steel didn’t melt so easily, and it did hurt her, the foul stink of charred flesh stinging her nostrils until the metal had cooled, and when Gitmo pulled the smoldering thing from her chest, her flesh pulled like taffy, and blood oozed from the hole.

  She felt her bladder loosen with no chance to stop it. Hot, prickly wetness saturated her underwear and trickled down the inside of her thighs.

  “Oh my dear,” Gitmo chuckled as he stepped away, looking down at her crotch. Her shirt fell back into place, the collar stretched loose where it rubbed against the open wound.

  Colby danced back from her, grip loosening. “Jesus Christ, did she piss herself?”

  “It’s okay, Lin,” Frank said.

  Humiliation pushed her over the edge and she wept.

  “She told you she had to go. If you’d just let her.”

  “She’ll survive.” Gitmo sneered at the burned chunk of flesh on the end of the lighter and returned it to the counter. He picked up the video camera and returned to where Frank and Linda hung with it held in a gloved hand.

  Colby’s rough hand released her neck.

  “Are you ready to talk to the camera?”

  Linda wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “W-what?”

  Gitmo reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a folded, crumpled sheet of paper. “Sarge wants you to read this.”

  Linda wouldn’t allow herself to feel relief until they unlocked the chains. Her damp thighs and the burn above her breast itched like crazy, blood already seeping through her shirt. “That’s it? It’s over?”

  Gitmo thrust the paper toward her. “If you do good.”

  “What is that?” Frank squinted, trying to get a look at what was written on the page.

  “Sarge wants you to read this message for the camera. If you do good, if you make the government people believe it, and they listen to what Sarge has to say and not give us a hard time.” Gitmo shrugged. “Then yep. That’s it.”

  “Great,” Frank said with a bitter chuckle. “I guess we’re fucked then.”

  Colby swatted the back of Frank’s head. “Watch the cussin’.”

  15 — Turn of the Screwdriver

  “‘My name is Linda Moffat.’“

  She struggled to read the words Sarge had written for her, barely legible on the crumpled page. Gitmo held it up, the camera resting against his belly with the screen pointed up so he could watch.

  Colby had dragged the broken metal chair over to the counter where Gitmo’s tools still lay and watched her with a dark look. A single-barrel shotgun he’d brought in from the truck stood against the wall at his side.

  “‘My husband Frank and I are uh, being hos—held hostage by the Hell’s Gate Posse. You have s-seen what these men are capable of. Please d-don’t dismiss their demands out of hand or they will—’“

  She stopped.

  “Would you like me to hold it closer?” Gitmo said.

  Frank gave her a look of concern. “Linda?”

  “‘They will kill us,’“ she finished and turned to Frank.

  He shook his head. The movement made him wince.

  “‘We demand . . .’“ She swallowed, her mouth and throat dry. “‘We demand that the hundred acres of land which was legally granted to the Hill family by President James Buchanan in 1860 and was il-illegally p-purchased from Leland Hill under duress in 1957 be immediately returned to the Hill family, including any current structures on said property and several acres currently occupied as national parkland.’“

  She swallowed. Gitmo urged her on with a nod.

  “‘If these demands are not met by noon, Sunday, May 28th, we will be shot—’” She shook her head clear, blinking through tears. “‘We will be shot in the back of the head at exactly twelve-o-one. Our blood will be on the hands of the American government. Please,’“ she said, staring into the lens, trying to make whoever eventually saw this tape feel the words. “‘Do not take their demands lightly.’“

  She’d reached the end of the page. There were no more words left to say.

  Gitmo pressed the record button, and the red light winked out. He lowered the camera and folded the crumpled page to his pocket.

  “You did good.” His smile showed through the mouth hole of his mask. “Very convincing. Let’s just hope they take it seriously.”

  “They will,” Colby said. “Nothin’ tugs on people’s heartstrings like a pretty, white lady in distress. It’s just too bad they don’t got kids. You don’t have kids, do ya?”

  “That’s enough for today, Colby.”

  Colby clenched his jaw, eying the back of the torturer’s head as Gitmo gathered his tools back into the box. The one-armed man returned his attention to Linda with a leering grin.

  “Stop looking at her,” Frank told him.

  “Or what?”

  “Leave them alone, Colby!” Gitmo turned with the open-end wrench held tight in a gloved fist.

  Colby sneered up at his colleague. “What do you care about them, huh? After what you just did—”

  “You heard what Sarge said. I’m in charge of this operation, and I say they’ve been through enough for today.”

  “Like heck.” Colby stood and stomped halfway to where Frank hung. “This piece of crap killed Jackson! They maimed Biscuit! I had to put the poor girl down myself!”

  Gitmo grabbed Colby by the shoulder stump and turned him around. Towering over the man, he lowered his head to Colby’s level. “This camera is gonna record every goddamn thing you do.” He pointed at it, the lens aimed at Frank and Linda, the red light on. “You move it, you turn it off, you even look at the fucking thing, and I will fuck your shit up.”

  “Watch the cuss—”

  “Fuck your cussing. And fuck you, Colby. You stepped in this shit, and we’re all stuck with the stink. You make this any goddamn worse, and I will personally make your life a living hell, you hear me?”

  Colby jutted out his chin, refusing to back down. But he said nothing. Clearly Gitmo was not just the larger of the two men, he was also tougher.

  Gitmo nodded and returned to the counter. He closed the lid on the tool box, latched it, and carried it past Linda to the door. Its hinges creaked on his way out.

  “Go on, get the heck outta here,” Colby grunted, kicking dust in Gitmo’s direction.

  Outside, the tool box clattered in the back of the truck. The driver door slammed, and the engine turned over. The trumpets from Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” blasted from the stereo, fading away to nothing as Gitmo drove off.

  Colby grinned. “Now we got ourselves some privacy.” He slipped his thumb into the waist of his pants and sauntered over.

  “Don’t forget the camera,” Frank said.

  “The camera makes it more fun.” Colby’s grin widened. “You two should know that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Frank.” Linda shook her head. “Don’t.”

  “You know what it means,” Colby said. “I seen the two of you on tape back at the lodge. Heck, I might just make a copy of that for myself for those long, lonely nights.”

  He ran the back of his hand down Linda’s cheek. She cringed, twisting away from his rough knuckles.

  “Leave her alone!”

  “Tough words for a fella strung up like a buck, ‘bout to be butchered.”

  Colby inhaled sharply through his nose and slapped Linda hard across the face. She winced but didn’t cry out, knowing it would only fuel his brutality.

  “Ooooh, she is a fiiine woman, Moffat. I bet she gives it just as hard as she takes too. The aggressive type.” He winked. “Feisty.”

  Frank struggled against his chains, and Colby spun on the heels of his boots. “What are you gonna do, tough guy?”

  “Let me out of these chains and I’ll fucking show you.”

  Colby’s fist struck Frank’s eye before he could pull back. As the stars cleared, Frank wondered how his face must look. Bruised beyond recognition most likely.

 
Colby grabbed his jaw and squeezed. “Git ain’t here no more, Moffat. This ain’t a cussin free-for-all.” He pushed Frank’s face away and turned to Linda. “You ever done it with a man with one arm, princess? What I lack in limbs, I make up for in length, I guarandamntee ya.”

  Linda spat in his face.

  He showed his too-white teeth. “Best save some of that for later. You’ll need it for lubrication.”

  Linda tore away from him as he laughed uproariously. He turned to the camera and approached it in a jig, laughing like a malevolent clown.

  “Oh, this is just like Christmas mornin’!” he said to the camera. “Let’s see what Santa’s got for us under the tree.” He pinged something metallic against the counter and turned back to them with the screwdriver in his hand. “Gitmo ain’t the only one who plays games. I like ’em too.” He raised the screwdriver in front of Frank’s face. “Which end, Moffat?”

  “W-what?”

  “Choose which end I shove up your wife’s cooter.”

  Linda kicked out at the air in front of him. “Stay away from me!”

  Frank pulled the chains taut. “Don’t you touch her!”

  The man watched her feet dance with a wide smile. “Moffat, if you don’t let me play, I’m gon’ get ornery. And ornery men should not be trusted with shotguns, if you get my meaning.”

  Frank settled against the chains.

  “You know what? Let’s save that game for later, shall we?” Colby slipped the screwdriver into his belt and skirted around Frank. He scooped up a hood from the floor, flicked it loose, and draped it over Frank’s head a couple of times before finally managing to pull it down.

  “Leave him alone!”

  “Then do it! Cry for me, princess! This is America. You’re either a victim or a victimizer, so assert your goddamn victimhood!”

  She cringed away from the man, and he grinned. Turning back to Frank, he grabbed the cuffs and raised them off the hook. Frank let his arms fall immediately, glad for the breather.

  “On your knees. You fight back an’ I’ll jam this Phillips into your lady’s head.”

  Frank staggered onto the knee of his injured leg, then to the other, arms held out in front of him as if he were praying. If he had ever been a praying man, now would be the place and time for it.

  He heard the man unzip his fly.

  “If you touch her, I swear—”

  “This ain’t for her, Moffat. This Bud’s for you.”

  “What—?”

  Linda turned away as Colby pulled out his flaccid, uncircumcised penis and let loose with a stream of piss in Frank’s face.

  Frank shut his eyes, twisting away as hot urine drenched the fabric. The acrid smell stung his nostrils. His eyes burned. And suddenly he was drowning, choking on piss. Turning away hadn’t helped. The hood had stuck to his face, and he couldn’t inhale through his nose without sucking in sour piss, and he couldn’t breathe through his mouth without tasting it.

  He held his breath, trying to pretended it was just water. But water didn’t burn unless it was boiling. Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed hard, and the stink seeped into his nostrils. The only thing keeping him from puking was the thought that he would choke on it and die.

  Finally, the stream became a trickle and stopped entirely. Bubbles of piss stung his sinuses when he sucked in a desperate breath, but he didn’t dare open his mouth again until the hood was off his face.

  “Frank . . . ?”

  Colby tore off the mask and Frank gasped. Urine-damp hair hung in his face, dripping into his eyes and mouth. He spat, blinked piss from his eyes, and looked up at his captor, who had thankfully returned his filthy dick to his pants.

  Frank doubled over and puked at the man’s feet. It dribbled down his chin and he gagged and coughed while Colby laughed gleefully.

  “Waterboarded the sucker!” Colby danced toward the camera. “Waterboarded ‘im with piss!”

  “You’re a psychopath!” Linda cried.

  “Best be quiet, princess, or you’re next. Might take me a while to brew up some more though.”

  Frank coughed and wiped his mouth with a forearm. He spat a thick wad of phlegm and saliva, never so glad for the taste of vomit.

  “What other toys did that big critter leave us? Not much, not much. I guess that leaves only one thing . . .” He dug the screwdriver out of his belt and approached.

  “Please,” Linda begged. “Please don’t.”

  “I like it when you beg, sweetie pie.” He twirled the tool around in his fingers. “Trust me, you gon’ be beggin’ me to keep goin’ in a hot minute.”

  Frank staggered wearily to his feet, heavy from the weight of the chains.

  Colby swung the screwdriver toward Linda, holding the blade just shy of her throat. She flinched back, the tip of it pressing against her trachea.

  “Stick right there, Moffat. Less you wanna see how quick I can jab this thing in her neck.”

  Frank stayed still. Colby returned to his side, slipped the screwdriver into his pocket, and grabbed Frank’s cuffs. He yanked his arms up and settled the cuffs back on the hook.

  “Haven’t you humiliated us enough?” Frank snapped.

  “I decide when we’re done.” Colby pointed at himself with a thumb. “Me. Not you. Not her. M-E. Y-O-U killed my battle buddy. Far as I’m concerned, Y-O-U deserve a whole helluva lot worse and then some.”

  “Fine,” Frank said. “But leave her out of this. I’m the one that killed your friend. I’m the one that snapped the bear trap on your dog. Hurt me, not her.”

  Colby’s eyes shone with glee. “Ohhh, but that’s what I learned watchin’ Gitmo go to town on you two. He hurt you more hurtin’ her than he done hurtin’ you. So I’m gon’ hurt you, Moffat. But I ain’t gon’ touch another hair on your piss-stinkin head.”

  Movement in the window beyond Linda caught Frank’s eye. He saw the man’s shadow fall over the sill before he saw the man himself.

  Impossible, he thought. Beat me so hard I’m seeing ghosts.

  Neville Lumley stood outside the window, staring in, dressed in what looked like a hospital gown.

  Frank tore his gaze from the sight, hoping his captor hadn’t noticed his attention had drifted. When he dared another glance at the window, Neville—Jamal—was gone.

  Linda gave him a curious look. He frowned, shook his head lightly.

  “I’m still curious about one thing,” Frank said. “Who were you trying to shoot when you killed Neville Lumley? Your friend Jackson said it was an accident, but Sarge seemed to think you were hunting somebody else. Someone from the government? A banker?”

  “I don’t question orders.”

  “So Sarge sent you after him.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  Frank noticed the flash of anger in Colby’s eyes and decided to dig. “You don’t care about any of this? You’re risking death, or prison for the rest of your life if you’re lucky, for a plan you don’t even care about?”

  Colby seemed to consider it.

  “You and Jackson fought for this country. Did Sarge?”

  “Saw combat in ‘Nam, I understand.”

  “And you see no problem with his ideas about the government? About this country whose ideals and freedoms you fought for?”

  “I don’t get mixed up in politics.”

  “Wake up, man. I mean he’s clearly using you. You think he gives a sh—” He stopped short of cursing, watching Colby slowly back away from him. “You think he cares whether you live or die? He probably wants you all to die so you could be martyrs to his cause. Next thing you know, he’ll be asking you to strap on a suicide vest and blow yourself up for a hundred acres of dirt in the middle of nowhere.”

  Colby startled as the back of his legs hit the chair, and he sank down hard in it.

  “He’s right,” Linda said. “Sarge was glad Frank killed your friend.”

  “No.” Colby shook his head, eyes on his boots. “No, that ain’t true.”

>   “He said he never liked him. He probably only tolerated him because he was some woman named Clara’s son.”

  Colby’s gaze snapped to her. “He said that? He said her name?”

  “He said Clara’s boy didn’t even deserve a eulogy,” Frank said. “He would have let us leave after I shot him in self-defense, if he thought we’d have kept our mouths shut and not gone to the cops.”

  “That mother—” The man stopped himself with a sneer. “That . . . snake.”

  “Let us go, Colby.” Somehow, Linda managed to look sympathetic, despite everything the man had done and had been prepared to do to her. “You can erase this tape. Burn it. Whatever. Anything happens, we’ll leave your name out of it. I promise you. You were just following orders. Manipulated by a con man.”

  “No, that’s—” Colby shook his head. “That’s not how it is. I don’t get manipulated. I ain’t stupid.”

  “Colby,” Frank said. “Dude. It’s nothing new. It happens to everyone.”

  “I said I ain’t stupid!” The man stood with a ferocious scowl and charged at Frank with the screwdriver held out before him.

  Frank reared back, raising a leg in self-defense. The blade caught him in the thigh and penetrated to the hilt, tearing through meat and muscle and deflecting off the bone. Linda cried out, and Colby twisted the bit, his too-white teeth gritted, eyes fixed on Frank, feeding off his pain.

  Frank struggled to remain conscious as the cabin went gray.

  Colby let go of the screwdriver and staggered back. He dropped into the chair, breathing heavily, eyes downcast.

  Frank gingerly lowered his leg to the floor. The screwdriver popped out of the wound and clattered on the tiles, glistening with his blood.

  “Are you okay?” Linda asked.

  He swallowed hard and tried to nod. His head drooped to his chest instead, chin striking the chains.

  Colby drew the shotgun into his lap and held it in both hands. “I don’t want to hear the two of you for a while.” His focus remained on the floor. “Don’t make a peep, or the next word any of ya’ll say is gon’ be the last, I guarandamntee it.”

  Frank kept his mouth shut. There was nothing left to say.