by Pete Aldin
"My bad."
Kyle leaned across the table. "It's okay, Terry. What else would ya be here for, if not the meds? You're not the first. Been a couple of others who knew about it."
"You ... you made it here first? You got your whole team here?" Woodsy mumbled.
Kyle waved the blade in a naughty-naughty gesture. "Trying to get information? Work out our numbers? I won't be telling you that. Even though whatever you discover wouldn't do you much good. Lemme ask Elliot-slash-Mister-Elliot a question now. You drove around our entire perimeter, I think. A thirty-six kilometre barrier is pretty impressive, huh? In this day and age?"
Elliot eyed the blade hungrily. His right palm itched. Kyle was out of reach, as were his two armed cronies. Elliot tried to sound defeated, cooperative. "We came in from the south, took—"
"You entered from the west. But you must have checked out a few other approaches first, a man like you. Unless Woodsy's been by here in the last eighteen months, he wouldn't have known about the wall. So, yeah, maybe you originally came up from the far south. More likely it was down from the north. Midland Highway would make the most sense. It was north, yes? And you have a vehicle outside somewhere don't you?"
Elliot's heart lurched. If they had seen Angie. If she hadn't left the vicinity of the wall. If they knew where she was ...
Kyle continued, "You have other people waiting?"
Elliot let out a small sigh of relief. People. Plural. No, they didn't have eyes on Angie.
"What, now you've lost your tongue?" Kyle said. "Really, Elliot? All right, I'll offer you info as a trade and maybe you'll have the manners to reciprocate. Ask me something, anything. Except—" he tapped the table with the lockblade "—our numbers."
Behind his back, Elliot flexed his hands, keeping them limber. "We saw people earlier. Malnourished and dirty. What's their story?"
"Their story. Well, that's an old story when times are tough. We can't all be the bosses, can we? And we can't all be workers. You think Glenda and Jason here built that wall? Planted our crops? Shit, no. They've got more important stuff to do. And before you go all bleeding heart on us, our little peasants are luckier than most. I'm damned sure you've seen worse out there. Jimmy certainly acts like he has. Don't write any of this down, Glenda."
Glenda hadn't moved a muscle in the last minute, and she hadn't moved her pen.
"Not gonna bore you with the tale of the wall, but it's a good story isn't it, Jason, our story?"
"I reckon it'd make an awesome movie," Da Silva said.
Kyle laughed. "You're meant to be bad cop, not stand-up comedian cop."
"Oops."
Still grinning, Kyle continued, "I'll tell you this much. There was a BAFFLE flood barrier business near Richmond. Global warming created some real niche manufacturing businesses, didn't it? The BAFFLE people had eighteen hundred of those big-arse barrier blocks sitting in their warehouse and on their trucks, enough to cover almost eight kilometres of ground." He gave Elliot a thumbs-up. "God, they're easy to transport and erect. You ever come across 'em, Elliot? No? Oh, I'm sure you did. Maybe you did a little disaster relief? Well, trust me, if you ever do, get some of these buggers, they're awesome. Kept out the last of the walking toxies. And if anyone comes here from overseas and sniffs around, well, hopefully it'll slow them down, too. At least we'd have something between us and them. She ain't the Great Wall of China, but she'll do.
"Now," he leaned forward again and tapped the blade again. "Let's come back to the question you asked. The people you saw might not have their plates piled high every night, but they do have food. Dry beds. Clothing. No gangs assaulting them, no rapists assaulting them, both of which are very much against our laws. And this segues nicely with my next line of inquiry for you. You blokes look well dressed and well fed."
"Especially Woodsy," Da Silva added. "Tubby bugger."
Kyle nodded. "Indeed. You're well-armed, too. A SIG Sauer P226, a Steyr-AUG assault rifle, Glocks, an assault shotgun, for Chrissake? The Glocks and the Steyr are old biker weapons, I reckon. Yessiree, something tells this old detective you three blokes have a pretty sweet setup somewhere. And that's all I want to know. Where you came from. Where your camp is. Your compound. Did you team up with some of those Maggot Riders? Or the Satans of the South? Did ya take a few out and steal their weapons for your own base? I'd really like to visit with your people and learn more about them."
He waited ten seconds.
"See, competition is bad for us. It makes life more dangerous and complicated than we want it to be. On the other hand, new people coming to join us are good for our society, good for keeping things ticking over. So. I ask again. Elliot? Where's your camp? Where's home? Woodsy? Home? No comment, really?"
The chair scraped across the floor as he stood. Glenda flinched. "Jason, we're close to bad cop time."
"Looking forward to it."
He held a hand out to Glenda. "Pen and paper, love."
The paper rattled as she passed the notebook and pen across. Kyle dumped them in front of Woodsy.
"Draw a map, Terry. Nearby towns and landmarks. Diagram of your compound or whatever you live in."
Woodsy didn't budge.
The three SERPs were completely focused on Kyle and Woodsy. Muscles buzzing, Elliot inched around in Da Silva's direction. He got a half-metre closer without being noticed.
Maybe an opportunity would come.
Maybe he could make his own.
Maybe he and Woodsy were dead already.
Kyle's tone had turned grim. "We tried the easy way. Jimmy was the easy way. But he's a retard. He genuinely doesn't know where he lives, or the way back. You two do."
Voice a whisper, Woodsy asked, "What did you do to him?"
Kyle continued without breaking rhythm. "I know it's called Settlers Downs. And it's near the coast. Might be east, might be north. Once again, Jimmy wasn't real clear on that. I can't find a place with that name on any maps and there's no internet anymore. So you're my next option. Not him." The knife winked at Elliot just as he was about to take another surreptitious step sideways. "Coz Elliot's a pro. A real life hard-ass. But you're a weak-willed, selfish, sad-sack of crap. So be your true self, Woodsy; be that sack of crap. Get it over with and draw us the map."
There followed another pause, a little longer than ten seconds this time. Then very quietly, Kyle said, "Glenda, you can leave now."
She did. Fast. Knocking over her chair in her haste.
Elliot risked another little step in the ruckus of her leaving—and Da Silva caught it. He lifted an index finger and wagged it at Elliot then pointed back to the spot where Elliot had been a minute earlier. Returning to that space, Elliot's mind reeled. There had to be something he could do. There had to be an angle.
Another cop was out in the hallway, as Elliot had suspected. The square-jawed, marble-eyed thug leaned in once Glenda's footsteps had vanished along the corridor. Instead of the MCX rifle Elliot expected, he carried a shallow plastic box, his sidearm holstered like Kyle's.
Kyle had lost most of his sense of theater now. But he did say, "Bad cop time, Jase. And I feel like playing it."
"No worries."
Without taking his eyes from Elliot, Kyle beckoned the thug—nameplate MILLER—from the doorway. Miller dumped the tray on the table, got behind Woodsy who twisted in his seat to keep him in view. The little tray contained cotton gauze and something that looked like a big epipen. Da Silva's focus shifted to Woodsy and he started to move his way.
And Elliot acted, lunging for the chair he'd kicked aside earlier. He had it in his hands, turning and almost ready to release it across the table at Da Silva and Kyle when Erikson's taser hit him.
Pain!
Muscles frozen, he hit the floor hard on thigh and shoulder, the chair slamming harmlessly into a table leg.
The electrical charge felt like it lasted an eternity and then he was free of it, stiff as a board on the linoleum, groaning through clenched teeth.
"Don't
do that again," someone said from far away. Or maybe that's what they said. The voice sounded delayed. His muscles everywhere burned as if they'd been on a twenty-mile run with a full pack. Elliot tried to get up again, got into a seated position and had to stop there. Wires trailed between his gut and the yellow unit in Erikson's hand. The taser's barbed darts were still hooked in his skin.
"Happy to do it again if you like," she deadpanned.
"Stay on the floor, mate," said Da Silva.
Elliot wanted to reply; he had the requisite curses in mind. But the words wouldn't travel as far as his lips.
He must have blanked for a second or two, because people had shifted places. Da Silva and Miller were now pinning a squirming Woodsy to his chair. Da Silva wrapped the crook of one elbow around Woodsy's throat and used his other hand to pull his prisoner's right arm down and back, locking it against him. Miller wrestled Woodsy's free arm onto the table and anchored it there, his weight on it.
"Now that little fracas is over," Kyle said, "let's get back to business." He stuck his left hand in Woodsy's face, angling it for a good view of the scar tissue that replaced two fingers. "See this? A toxie bit the tips of these fingers. Just a nip. Just enough to turn me if I let it. We'd found out from experience that if you get bitten, you can prevent the spread of the toxin by amputating the extremity. Which is tough luck if they bite your arse ... ha, or your neck. So, what I did was I killed the bitch who bit me and then I cut off my own fingers. To save my life. Seems to have worked."
"Seems a logical conclusion," Da Silva agreed.
"Having experienced it, I know the pain is survivable. Even for you." Kyle grabbed Woodsy's flailing left hand in his own, flattening and stretching it. "Last chance, Terry. Where's your settlement?"
"Okay, look!" Woodsy was sweating so hard his hair was soaked. Droplets ran down his face. "Listen. There's an island. Full of people. I can direct you."
Idiot, Elliot thought. They'll pass near The Downs to get to Barnabas.
Kyle scoffed. "We're already on an island."
"No, a smaller one, I mean. Fifty people over there. More, probably. Plenty for you."
Kyle made a nice-try face. "But they're not your people. And you won't have good information on them."
"I do. I swear."
"Terry. We're not exactly an amphibious bunch here. Let's try it again. Your place?"
Woodsy blinked sweat from his eyes. "Not the island then. There's other groups. We'll help you defeat them and then—"
"Don't need your help. Just the information about your group."
"Okay, okay. You let me and ... and the boy go. We'll bring you back six people. Healthy people."
Yellow bastard.
"Hah! That's more like the Terry we know and love. Terry the dealmaker. Terry the bloody politician. The weasel never changes its spots does it? Selfish to the end. You'd probably keep that deal, knowing you. Problem is, I now suspect there's a lot more than six people back home. So, for the final time, answer my damn question or I'm performing surgery on your hand with Elliot's knife."
"But ... listen ... we can ..."
Kyle said, "Enough."
"Wait!"
Miller shifted to get a better hold on his prisoner, his shoulder and vest obscuring Woodsy's face. All Elliot saw now of Woodsy was the bucking of his shoulders. The thrashing of his legs beneath the table. Elliot didn't see the lockblade's work but the crunch was godawful—the sound followed immediately by Woodsy's bellow and then the other men yelling at him to shut up.
Elliot didn't realize he'd lifted his butt off the floor until Erikson raised the taser meaningfully. He'd never pull the barbed darts out quickly enough: plenty of opportunity for her to press that trigger and hold it there.
He sank back as Kyle shouted his question again and received no answer beyond Woodsy's subdued moans. The chair had shifted in the struggle, giving Elliot a new view of Woodsy's ashen face, his twitching cheek, the dribble of blood from his lip where he'd bitten it. Their eyes met for a moment before Woodsy's slid back to watch Kyle rummaging in the tray.
Leaving the knife there, Kyle's right hand came out holding gauze. "Can't have you bleeding to death. Hold still while I soak ... that's it ... now ..." He took something else from the tray with his left hand.
Elliot heard a soft electrical crackle and sizzle, quickly drowned out by fresh yowling from Woodsy.
"Hold still, you big baby, I haven't got it all! There we go ..."
He held the implement up for Elliot see before flicking it into the tray. What had looked like an injector was an electrical cauterizer. The sulfur-and-copper stink of burnt skin and blood vessels hit Elliot's nasal passages like smelling salts, sobering him instantly, slapping away the grogginess he'd suffered since the tasing.
"Stop this, you bastards," he growled, but no one responded.
"Once more, Terry," Kyle said. "Terry! Focus here. The location of your settlement or the next joint comes off." Woodsy spat in his face and Kyle's cheeks flushed with anger. "I wasn't enjoying this. But now—"
The knife crunched through bone.
Terry shouted all the things he wanted to do to Kyle, acts that Elliot would have loved to assist with.
But neither one of them was going to get that chance.
Elliot had heard enough stories of CIA assholes putting hapless Muslims through this same thing. And none of those poor people—innocent or guilty—ever found their way out of it.
But they weren't Ranger-trained and bred. I should be able to do something.
The process of maiming-pressure-cauterization cycled twice more.
Elliot felt impotence. He felt shame.
Do something!
But he couldn't. He wanted to twist that handgun from Erikson's grip and shoot all of them. Or at least put one in Woodsy to stop him giving away Settlers Downs. And, yes, to spare the poor bastard more trauma. But Elliot's muscles shook with the aftereffects of electrocution. It would take longer to recover than the time they had. And Erikson—with her finger on her taser's trigger—was too alert.
Kyle shouted. The crack of a slap filled the room. Elliot's head jerked up in time to see Woodsy's do the same. He'd passed out, but Kyle wasn't letting him get away with that. The SERP leader held up the bloody knife—blood was all over the table now, and over Kyle's hands—and shouted, "You seriously want more of this? You stupid, stupid prick!" He threw the knife out the door to bang against the corridor wall, then sighed, rolling his shoulders, looking at Miller. "Get the kit. Fix his hand properly."
His men let go of Woodsy. Their victim slid off his chair and into the fetal position beneath the table, sobbing.
Miller stomped from the room while Da Silva indicated Elliot. "Him next?"
Kyle dabbed at his hands with spare gauze. "If Woodsy won't talk, there's no way he will."
"Want the kid then?"
"Yeah, go get him."
⁓
Before the bandages went on, Elliot saw that three of Woodsy's fingers had lost their first joint. Miller treated Woodsy's wounds with antiseptic and bandaged them. Neither Erikson nor Elliot had moved from their spots. Like a well-trained guard dog, Erikson hadn't once taken her eyes off him. But she did direct him to take the taser darts out of his flesh. He slid them out as careful as possible, but still their barbed ends tore a little skin. As Erikson tossed the weapon out the door for later maintenance, Elliot bunched his t-shirt over the wounds and pressed them there to stop the bleeding. He winced: there was a little blistering around the twin holes.
Erikson winked at him and showed him the Smith & Wesson.
The reprieve from further tasing did not mean mercy; it meant they were saving him for some other fate.
Woodsy had dragged himself out from beneath the table to let Miller treat his hand, but hadn't made it any further: he sagged by his chair, clothes stained by his own blood and by sweat, face white. To his credit, he hadn't soiled himself.
By the time Da Silva guided Jimmy into the ro
om, Kyle had washed his hands and helped Miller clear the torture and the first aid kits out of the room. Then they'd returned to stand either side of the door.
Jimmy didn't look much better than Woodsy. His left cheek was cut. Also his lip. His t-shirt had red stains from the facial wounds and was torn at one shoulder. He'd been crying.
At the sight of his young friend's condition, Woodsy whispered, "I'll kill you all" and Elliot snarled wordlessly.
Kyle didn't so much as glance their way. He said, "Hold him."
Da Silva went to grab the kid by the shoulders. But Jimmy dropped, slipping through Da Silva's gloved fingers to curl in a ball at his feet. Da Silva laughed in surprise. Jimmy's arms were over his head. Whether this was habit born of his earlier treatment by SERPs or by Death Druids, Elliot didn't know. He did know he wanted to badly harm whoever had caused the kid to react like this.
Da Silva clamped a boot onto Jimmy's ribs, holding him in place. He gestured for his boss to continue.
Kyle said, "Pay attention, Terry. Listen very carefully. You're going to tell me where your camp is."
"Maggots," Woodsy whispered.
"All right then. Don't say I didn't try to be nice. Jason, the boy's useless to us. Take him outside and shoot him in the head."
Jimmy whimpered.
"What!" Woodsy gasped. He struggled to stand, but slipped. His chair skidded away.
This time, Kyle did look to Elliot. "You two want to save this boy's life, you know what to do." When there was no response, he waved a hand. "Jason."
Da Silva had a thrashing Jimmy to the doorway before Woodsy coughed, "Wait!"
Da Silva did.
The look of hope on Jimmy's face soured when Elliot said what he had to. "Woodsy, you can't."
"I have to."
"You don't. It's three of us. Only three of us."
"I'll tell you," Woodsy said to Kyle.
"Be strong, man!" Elliot shouted.
But the fight had left Terence Woods. "I'll tell you," he repeated softly.
"How about that?" Kyle asked his team. "Success at last."
Da Silva chuckled. "You'll really really tell us, Mr. Woods? Truly ruly?"
"Yes."