by W. A. R.
“You don’t understand. I am willing to risk my life for them. I am not asking everyone else to do the same.” She said stubbornly, her jaw clenching. She was so very tense.
“You don’t have to.” A voice sounded from behind George. Bobby-Jean stepped from behind her friend, advancing towards her. Her mother had her arms crossed and wrapped tightly across her abdomen. Her eyes were puffy and swollen from crying, dark purplish rings under her eyes from lack of sleep. Amber felt her heart break at the sight.
“Mom…” she began, desperate to rid her mother of the heartache of their discussion. She had been right; that Amber was crazy to go after these people…people with skill and weapons and community; people with no moral code to stop them from performing unspeakable acts to those they deemed unworthy or their time.
“We respect you, Amber. We all worked together yesterday, and because of that we are able to stand here now.” Her mother said, stopping two feet from Amber. Amber studied her, feeling her heart ache just a little more.
“We are behind you one hundred percent.” Derek stated, coming around George as well, Rick behind him. “You aren’t alone in this, and neither are we. We are a family. They saved us, and now it is our turn to save them.”
She looked at them all as they began to file in, showing themselves and their approval, their unity. She felt her chest tighten. “I can’t promise what will happen, or if we will make it out. Things are going to become more brutal than they already are.”
“We know.” Katie replied, wrapping her arms around her slender frame. “And that’s why we thought you should know that the owner of this house had this.” With that, Rick stepped around and handed her a small black leather briefcase. She looked at it curiously for a moment, refusing to open it. Katie shrugged. “In one of the spare rooms there was a table, some tools. Not sure why he had this stuff here, don’t really care, but those are his tools.”
Rick studied her for a moment. “Do what you have to do. We have your back, cuz.” He told her, his eyes bloodshot as well. His hands trembled as she slowly removed the briefcase from his hold. She felt overwhelmed at the unity of them all, and yet it lifted her up, brought her a sense of peace and comfort that she before didn’t have. She nodded vacantly, feeling Buddy stop shifting through drawers and turn to watch them all.
“In that case, everyone get some rest. I will be back shortly. Then we can talk about our next plans because there are some things you all need to know.” She told them, sighing gratefully before turning and aiming for the back door. She felt a bit renewed, although still tired and mentally dragging her feet. She paused briefly, leather case in hand, and turned back to her small group. Amber needed information and she would get it one way or another. She was out for blood and she was going to take it. Glancing at the briefcase, she shook her head in wonder; her group knew what she was going to do and they supported it. Still, just as a precaution:
“Oh, and one more thing?” she asked of them all, her eyes searching every heated gaze, every angry and saddened face. Her anger was slowly coming back, the numbness leaving her. “Ignore everything that you hear.”
Chapter Five
The pain was excruciating, almost unbearable, and it came in slow steady waves that threatened to crash harder and harder than their predecessors. He grimaced against it, wishing he was once again numb to the world and to the agony he was experiencing. He knew that wouldn’t happen, however, not until his body collapsed once more into shock. He felt tears snake their way down his filth covered cheeks and he whimpered slightly as he tried to move his one good arm. He knew that he couldn’t move his left arm or either of his legs at all, they were too far damaged, and after a moment he realized that his one good arm was strapped down. He reluctantly opened his eyes, unsure of whether or not he wanted to see where he was, or even worse, who waited before him. His breathing was heavy and he forced himself to calm down. He was crying from the pain, but even more so from the unadulterated fear that was gnawing away at his body and forcing him to tremble violently. He was scared; terrified, and he realized that he had never been so terrified in his life.
Darkness filled his eyesight with the exception of small rays of orange light filling the blank spaces before him. The light came from cracks between wooden planks, and his surroundings consisted of high beams, dangling farm tools, and a few molded hay bales. He grimaced at the scent of must and decay and he turned from the sight of the hay bales, hearing low groans and desperate cries in the distance. His breathing became uneven and he jerked his hand reflexively against his restriction. He glanced down, seeing that he was in a sturdy wooden chair, belts of different widths holding his arms, hands, legs, and feet in place. Sweat began beading on his brow and he felt a trickle roll down the back of his neck. He whimpered again, wanting desperately to free himself, and he began scouring everything around him for tools of any use. What he saw made him still, unable to move, unable to breathe.
To his left there was a makeshift table, and on it were tools of unspeakable torture. There were clamps, needles, string, scalpels, filth covered towels, plyers, wire cutters, and knives. The items were laid out with such extreme precision and organization that he began to sob. His body was wracked with terror and panic. His chest tightened and he found it difficult to breath. He had fucked up; he knew his death was going to come to him in a slow torturous form. He needed to get out of there, he needed to find a way, any way possible. He tried to move his left arm, to stand on his legs and pain shot up his spine, forcing him to relent in his advances. He screamed in agony, in horror, and shook in his chair. He couldn’t stop the tremors, and he couldn’t leave. He was stuck, primed and ready to die.
“My associates here wanted me to strap you in using razor wire, but I didn’t.” he heard the low rumble of a determined voice reach his ears from behind him. He jerked his heard wildly about, struggling to find the source. Gasping for breath, he heard the shuffling of boot laden feet echo to his left. “I very well couldn’t have you bleed out before I was through with you.” More footsteps were heard to his right and flames flew up from a fire. The orange light illuminated two familiar faces in the dark and he once again tried to struggle before crying out in anguish. “It’s fruitless for you to try.” The voice informed him; the voice that had once been forgiving and comforting was now…well, now he had never been so scared of anyone in his life.
The footsteps still sounded to his left as they rounded the table and he forced himself to turn away. Fingertips ran across metals tools, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. No, it wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. It was a nightmare; he was in hell. It wasn’t real.
“No…no, please, no…” he begged, saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth before dripping from his bottom lip to his leg. Footsteps sounded to his right and he felt hot breath on his ear as the gruff looking man leaned over to him.
“Begging will get you nowhere, son.” The voice said before leaving and he shook his head, attempting to rid himself of the voices, of the sting of regret.
“No!!!” he screamed at the top of his lungs before he felt fingers grip his hair roughly, jerking his head back. The back of his head slammed hard against the back of the chair. He felt a wide strip of leather stretch across his forehead and tighten, holding him back against the chair. He tried to free himself of its confines but two big hands held his head still as another strip of leather across his chin. The big hands were gone from either side of his face and the strap was tightened to a painful pressure, jerking his chin slightly down. His lips parted involuntarily and he gasped, tasting the salt of his own tears. He felt a firm finger dig into the bullet wound of his shoulder and he cried out, jerking wildly and crying out more against even more pain. Tears flooded his face and he jerked his eyes open at the pain. He found himself staring into the face of his tormenter and future executioner.
Amber McDermott.
Her ice blue eyes were fire, her anger fueling the flames. They were red-rimmed and bloodsho
t, and he vaguely recalled how she had screamed into the night only hours before. Her lips were set into a thin straight line, and they were cracked and bleeding. Blood had dried on the side of her face and head, staining her hair crimson. Her shirt was stained crimson as well, and her arms, her hands. Hatred bubbled under the surface of her touch as she twisted her finger into his wound once more. He cried out, shutting his eyes, wanting to turn from her but once he felt her finger leave his wound, he opened his eyes and found them locked once more onto her. Her hair was in disarray, and there was a war raging in her eyes. Desperation, determination, fury, and retaliation were there, darkening her face to something he had not witnessed, something he never had thought her capable of. She stared at him, soaking in his fear like fuel. Eventually, she stood from her stance, distancing herself from him and turning towards the makeshift table.
“Now that I have your attention, as I said, I couldn’t have you bleeding out on me.” He watched as she picked up a pair of pliers and studied them before casually replacing them. She sighed. “You have a retribution awaiting you…and I have questions to ask you…information I need…information that you are going to give me one way or another.” She turned and glanced at him, a small, maniacal grin on her face. “And in case you forgot, we do have a nurse here so I know what can and cannot kill you.” She turned back to her tools, picking up a knife and before he had time to react she turned and slammed the knife into his left hand. He screamed, his fingers splaying out as blood pooled from the wound and dripped in a steady rivulet to the concrete floor below. His eyes burned and he choked on the air around him. She stood then, turning back to her tools and leaving the knife in his hand, the tip of the blade dug deep into the wood of the chair. “Let me just say first of all that I know who your dad is…which is…” she laughed lightly “…ironic, considering the circumstances. An eye for an eye.”
He paled even more so, if that were at all possible. “No…”
“Yes.” She countered, cutting him off, studying the pair of clamps before turning back to him. “We will make the first question easy, Damien. All you have to do is tell me where my people are.”
He swallowed back the sobs, able to only choke out some sort of answer. “I…I d…don’t...kn…know…”
She turned, clamps and scalpel in hand. Her eyes were ablaze, raging with crystalline hues of hatred in their icy blue depths. “Don’t lie to me Damien.” She said, placing both tools in one hand and reaching forward, jerking the knife from its hold on his hand. He cried out in agony.
“I’m not! I sw…swear…” he stammered, pleading for mercy with every syllable. She sighed, tossing the knife carelessly to the table on his left, her right. She slowly neared him.
“Alright. Tell me where they are taking them.” She demanded and he felt his blood run cold. He couldn’t tell her that. If he did it would mean death either way. He couldn’t betray them; he wouldn’t give them any more information than he already had. Slowly, fearfully, he shook his head, noting the darkening gleam in her eyes. She cocked her head to the side in maybe amusement and disbelief. “Damien, you might want to answer me if you know what is best for you. Where are they taking them?” she asked once more and again, he shook his head through the burred haze of his mind. She lifted a brow at him, her lips thinning. “Talk.”
For the last time, he shook his head, curling his fingers into his wounded palm. His entire body trembled at the sight of her. “No.” he told her and oddly enough, she smirked. She was so calm…too calm.
She never took her eyes from him as she spoke. “Your call. Buddy? George?” she called and two men ambled over purposefully from the fire. The stood on either side of him, angry and radiating the heat of their fury. None of them were uncertain of what they were doing. No; instead, they were determined and prepared. “Hold his mouth open please.” She said and immediately he felt four hands press against his chin and head.
He struggled as best he could against the pains that stemmed from their previous encounter, trying to cry out for help, for mercy. He watched with widened eyes as Amber readied the clamp. His mind went into a panic and it hurt to breathe. He shook his head violently against his captors but to no avail and before he knew it she held his tongue tightly in the hold of the clamps. He cried, trying to beg her but he knew after everything he had done there was no forgiveness waiting for him.
“It appears, with your failure to answer me, you either can’t talk or can’t listen. Let’s fix both, shall we?” She told him, tightening her hold on the clamps. He watched as she twirled the scalpel in her hand, holding it to the light and watching the light reflect off it. “Did you know that Van Gogh lived well after cutting off his own ear? Wonder how well you’ll do.” She paused and looked hard at him. “Tell me Damien, do you remember what happened?” she asked and he stared at her with wide-eyed disbelief. Of course, he remembered what had happened. He couldn’t answer though, couldn’t even think of answering. She turned her cold eyes to him. “Was it painful?” she asked and again he couldn’t answer. Yes, it was painful. The most painful thing he had ever endured but he knew she wasn’t talking about his pain. She was talking about her own. He had messed up. He had fucked with the wrong family and now he was at the mercy of a tortured and unforgiving soul. He whimpered slightly, but it didn’t seem to surprise her. Instead, she leaned forward, pulling tighter on the clamps that held his tongue and met his stare straight on. “Allow me to tell you what I remember.” She told him leaning back and bringing the scalpel to his tongue. The sharp blade rested against the muscle and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut as just the little pressure she applied caused him to taste his own blood.
“Uh uh…” he begged of her, opening his eyes and striving to reach that compassionate part of her. He wanted to reach out to the woman that would never have done what she was going to do. The look in her eyes grew hotter as she narrowed her eyes at him and he knew that he and his people had corrupted her and there was no escaping his debt. With one last look at him, he saw the tears fill her eyes, reminding him of the agony he had caused her.
“Let me express to you my pain.”
The screams echoed off of the sides of the barn, the man beneath Buddy’s hands trembling and choking on his own blood. Amber stepped back, clamps held tightly in her hand, and Damien’s tongue limp between the two arms of the tool. The bloodied scalpel was in her other hand and quickly she set her two tools down, watching as he gagged on the metallic taste of his blood. Buddy should have felt remorse, some version of guilt and hate for what they were doing, but he didn’t. Instead he felt angry and justified in their actions. He even should have been the one doing the damage, taking that burden from Amber, but he let her take it, knowing she would have it no other way. Once the tools were on the table, Buddy and George released their hold on him, George turning to the hot tool that was red from setting in the fire. Buddy glanced at the man, tears and saliva pooling together and coated his chin, the front of his shirt. He screamed, cried, but no more words came back. No words would ever come back. George stood then, heated tool in hand and Buddy nodded, readying himself once more to open the man’s mouth and he did so without regret. Once open, George inserted the heated tool, cauterizing the stump of a tongue he had left. Damien quaked, shook under the pain, struggling against his restraints and Buddy’s hold, even with broken limbs. It was quick, and before Buddy realized it, George had taken the tool away.
“Now…about that listening problem…” she began, twisting the bloodied scalpel in her crimson fingers. Slowly she neared the man and he struggled, screaming from the pain, from the fear; the closer she got, she more he struggled, despite his already damaged limbs. George moved grabbing the man’s chin and the crown of his head, twisting it so Amber had a clear angle. Buddy clamped his hands down on the chair, prohibiting it from moving. And then she began.
Her deft fingers were not trembling when she moved; the fingers of her left hand grabbing the tip of his left ear while her right hands he
ld the scalpel. She placed the blade against the skin and glanced down at him. His lap, his short and pants were covered with blood, his chin stained red and saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth. He screamed, if you could call it that. Amber never flinched, however, and after just a second she pressed the razor-sharp edge into his skin. She began sawing as he jerked, pulling with her other hand his ear from his head. It was tortuously slow, her movements, and Buddy knew that she was taking her time with it purposefully. Finally, with blood flowing down his face and onto his shoulder, dripping from her fingertips, she stepped away. His ear dangled from her fingertips and she studied it. George mirrored his movements from just moments before, only this time he stuck the flat end of a white-hot iron against his cheek, his temple, where his ear used to be. More screaming followed. It effectively stopped the bleeding. Very slowly, Amber stepped back in front of the man, pressing something into his left hand. His tongue and his ear. Buddy would have grimaced had he given a damn.
Amber bent over a little, placing her hands on her knees. “Can you hear me now, Damien?” she asked. Her eyes danced with challenge.
Damien merely whimpered in response, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he tried to alleviate the pain from his wounds.
“Are you willing to cooperate yet?” she asked of him, hands then clasped behind her back. Buddy released the man and stepped to the side, gauging his reaction. Damien stared at her through blurry vision before closing his eyes, whimpering, as that was all he could do now. Amber turned her head to the side, pressing her fingers against the back of her ear and furrowing her brow. “I can’t hear you. Could you speak a little louder?” she asked and he opened his eyes wearily. Buddy glanced down sideways at him, unsure of what to think, what to feel in that crucial moment. Hell, he hadn’t had a spare minute to think and whenever he had the night before, it was always interrupted with the urge to go save Amber from her own screams.