Testing Lysander

by L. M. Somerton

  Making the return journey alone was a hard slog and there were parts of it that Brock couldn’t remember at all. The only thing that kept him going was the thought of seeing Kyle again. The climb, which had thrilled him on the inward journey, became a precarious descent where a rope was the only thing keeping him alive. Brock gave thanks over and over that Kyle had left fixed rigging in place, making the abseil a relatively simple exercise. The muddy forest paths pulled at his boots and each step got harder and harder. By the time he staggered back into the base camp, Brock hardly knew what day it was.

  The small group of tents was silent. It was obvious that no one was there. Brock made it to the tent he had shared with Kyle, shrugged off his pack, dragged off his boots and collapsed onto a cot. He managed to swallow more pills but had no energy to resist the pull of unconsciousness.

  He awoke to the rumbling sound of approaching vehicles. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, but it didn’t feel like long. He guessed a couple of hours at most. Brock sat bolt upright, a sick feeling of panic churning in his guts.

  “Fuck. How could I fall asleep? I was supposed to hide.” He stood up and staggered as his vision went black around the edges. He felt hot and his skin was sheened with sweat. “Damn it! I cannot be ill.” He crawled to the tent flap. He peered out cautiously. Several four-wheel drive vehicles and a truck were pulling into the camp and he counted at least a dozen men. “If I run now, I might just make it.” He didn’t have any choice. To stay where he was meant certain capture. He made a dash for the trees.

  “Lupo, runner heading for the trees!”

  The sharp retort of a gun sent Brock to his knees. He staggered to his feet and lurched forward again.

  “Stop! Keep running and I’ll blow you to pieces.”

  Brock considered his chances. He was too far from safety to keep going. His shoulders dropped and he swiveled around to face half a dozen heavily armed men. He raised his hands to shoulder height and waited.

  “That’s him, Lupo. Nobody else in the forest has hair that color.” One of the group stepped forward—Brock guessed it was the one they called Lupo—and walked toward him. Brock took a couple of paces back, but his legs gave way beneath him and he fell backward into the dirt. The world spun in a dizzying psychedelic whirl of color. Brock tried his best to focus as Lupo and his men formed a loose circle around him.

  Lupo gestured to two men. “Put your weapons away and pick him up,” he ordered brusquely. “Be careful of him. I can’t interrogate a corpse.”

  The two men hauled Brock up by his arms. He was barely conscious, but the movement aggravated his shoulder wound and he croaked out a scream. One of the men slapped his face hard.

  “Come on. Wake up, you fucker.”

  “That’s enough,” said Lupo. “Tie his arms and put him in the jeep. Search him first.”

  Brock’s pockets were emptied as he hung between the two men.

  “Nothing but a pebble, for fuck’s sake.” The stone was tossed aside and Brock watched it fall to the ground. Anger sparked through him and he struggled weakly. His wrists were bound behind his back with rough cord, which bit into his flesh. His captors dragged and pushed him toward a jeep, its engine already running, and shoved him into the back seat.

  There were so many men around that any attempt to escape would be futile. Not that he was physically capable of running anywhere. Brock felt nothing but despair. He had endured so much in the past twenty-four hours and now he had no idea how he would cope with whatever awaited him. Where the hell is Kyle? If Lupo takes me away then no one will know where I am. There will be no chance of rescue.

  He was sandwiched between two men in the back of the jeep—one was thin and wiry with a stringy mustache, the other brawny and heavily muscled. He turned to the thin man.

  “You can’t do this, I’m just a photographer—”

  The thin man glared and caught him a hard backhanded blow across the face.

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Brock doubled over with the pain and to shield himself from another blow. Nobody was going to listen to a word he said, so he decided to stay silent.

  Lupo climbed into the passenger seat and was soon joined by another man who took the wheel. He lobbed Brock’s camera into Lupo’s lap.

  “This was in the tent. Nothing much else—there’s some climbing gear, expedition kit and supplies for a couple of weeks.”

  Lupo just nodded. “Let’s go.”

  The driver banged the jeep into gear and sped away down the track. Four bone-jarring hours later the jeep swerved to the right, ran on a hundred yards up a small sidetrack partly overgrown with bushes. It went on through a rusting gate into a concrete yard surrounded by a high wall topped with razor-wire. They drew up in front of a dilapidated building that seemed to be a small warehouse.

  Brock guessed that they were somewhere close to the airfield, as it was the nearest piece of civilization. The rough road they had followed was the same one that Milo and Juan had used after collecting him and Kyle from the helicopter.

  Someone urged Brock out of the jeep with a sharp elbow to the ribs. Fear crawled up his spine, making him shiver despite the heat. Lupo pushed up a roller door with a clatter and disappeared inside the building. Brock followed without resistance. He didn’t want to invite any more shoves or slaps. Inside it was hot as an oven and dark.

  Lupo stood in the doorway of a room on the right. He crooked a finger at Brock in summons and smiled coldly.

  “Come. We are wasting time.” He spoke in English with the slightest trace of an accent. He showed no emotion. Unable to do anything but obey, Brock crossed the threshold into a small room. It may once have been an office, but now it contained just a battered wooden desk and an empty metal bookcase. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling, but it wasn’t switched on. A narrow window, almost at ceiling height, provided the only illumination.

  Lupo took a seat on the desk, unhooked a coiled whip from his belt and put it down next to him. He pointed at the floor in front of him. “This will do,” he said to the thin man still gripping Brock’s bound arms.

  Lupo contemplated Brock, his face expressionless. “On your knees. Do not attempt to resist. Whether you live or die depends on the outcome of the talk we are about to have.”

  The thin man pushed Brock down then took out a hunting knife. He used it to cut the shirt from Brock’s body, yanking the pieces roughly away.

  “Leave us,” Lupo snapped. The thin man pulled the door closed behind him leaving Brock alone with Lupo.

  Brock knelt in the middle of the floor, cuts and bruises livid on his pale skin. Lupo circled him, then went back to lean against the desk. He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and shook one out. He stuck it between his lips and lit it with a lurid yellow plastic lighter. In the dark room, the bright color caught Brock’s attention and he followed it all the way to the desk.

  Lupo examined Brock like a spider might assess a fly. He picked up the whip from beside him and let the long, knotted tail trail toward the floor. Then he flicked his wrist and the whip painted a line of fire across Brock’s chest. His whole body arched in an involuntary spasm and he gasped. Behind his back, his fingers clenched into fists, then his body sagged.

  “You see, young man? Is your position quite clear?”

  Brock dragged his gaze upward to meet Lupo’s cold eyes.

  “I’m just a photographer. I have a commission from National Geographic—”

  “I don’t think so,” Lupo interrupted. He gave Brock a venomous glower. “Who sent you and where are the pictures you took?”

  The whip snapped forward, catching the side of Brock’s arm.

  “Perhaps I should explain,” said Lupo. “I am quite prepared to flay the skin from your body until you answer my questions, so please don’t be obstinate.” He paused, and his wrist lifted slightly on his knee. Brock cringed, expecting more pain, but Lupo just laughed. Brock closed his eyes, preferring not to see the whip lift ag
ain. A rhythmic tapping of wood on wood began. Brock opened his eyes a fraction and, as if he had been waiting for exactly that, Lupo struck again and again. Brock didn’t even have the energy to scream. He fell sideways onto the floor and tried to make his body smaller, less of a target. Lupo sat for a while smoking his cigarette. When he spoke again, he sounded impatient.

  “You were seen taking photographs. We have your camera, but the pictures on the memory card are of nothing but trees and mountains. Who was with you? Who has the other card?” The whip lashed down again.

  Through the red mist of pain, Brock thought of Kyle and it gave him strength.

  “I was alone. My expedition team remained at base camp. I’m just a photographer… I didn’t see anything…”

  “Stupid, stubborn…”

  Brock writhed as the whip struck again, catching his hip, ripping his trousers.

  Brock raised his head and spoke haltingly. “I’m telling you the truth.” Exhausted by the effort, he collapsed to the floor again. Tears ran from his eyes.

  “Bullshit.” For the first time, Lupo lost some of his calm. “Where are the fucking pictures?”

  Brock managed a harsh laugh. “Go fuck yourself.”

  Lupo snarled and set to work again with a series of savage blows. Brock let the pain overtake him and drag him into darkness.

  * * * *

  Brock came around with the kind of headache that usually followed at least two bottles of wine and a damn good evening out. There wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t hurt. His shoulder throbbed and the side of his face felt as if a horse had kicked him. He wondered if his cheekbone was fractured and tried to reach up to feel the wound, only to find that he couldn’t move his arms. As his mind cleared, he realized that his wrists were still bound behind his back and now his ankles were bound, too. His captors had removed his boots and left him barefoot, as well as shirtless. He lay on a rock-hard floor in an empty room with no windows. The heat in the small space was suffocating. Brock moaned softly to himself, dry lips cracking. He could taste the metallic tang of his own blood and had to fight the feeling of panic that threatened to overwhelm him. He had no recollection of being moved to this room. For all he knew, he could be in a completely different building or another town.

  No. It smells the same. Feels the same. He didn’t have much time to worry about it. Bolts grated and the door to his prison creaked open. He struggled against his bonds, trying to sit up. A pair of dusty boots arrived in front of his face, then his visitor nudged at his shoulder. He stilled and the man hauled him to a sitting position before cutting the ropes around his wrists. Muscles screamed as his limbs changed position for the first time in hours. Brock rubbed at his chafed skin and swore. He looked up into Lupo’s grinning face.

  “Eat. Drink. Then we talk some more.” Lupo leaned down and locked Brock’s wrists into a set of cuffs. Brock gagged as he got a whiff of fetid breath. Another man dumped a tin plate of food, a mug of water and an empty galvanized bucket next to him.

  “Nobody can say that Lupo is not humane.” Lupo ruffled Brock’s hair in a parody of affection, then left the room, laughing as he went. Brock resisted the urge to vomit and grabbed the mug of water. The liquid was warm but to Brock tasted better than the finest champagne. He took small sips, not knowing how long it might be before he got any more. On the plate was a heel of stale bread, a lump of cheese and an orange, sliced into quarters. Brock ate every scrap of the bread and cheese. He saved the orange until last because it smelled wonderful. It tasted amazing. The flavors burst across his tongue and the juice quenched his thirst. It felt like a wonderful treat.

  Painfully, Brock shuffled upright. He managed to use the bucket, then moved it away to the farthest corner of the room. He slumped against the opposite wall and rested his bound hands on his knees. Every inch of his body protested at the abuse he had suffered. If he had the energy to spare, he would have cried. He couldn’t bear to think about what Lupo might do to him next but there was no way he was going to put Kyle in danger. He had to buy him as much time as possible.

  If they were going to kill me, they would have done it already. That thought gave him a measure of comfort. I suppose I’ve got value as a hostage once they get sick of trying to whip the truth out of me. He rested his aching head on his hands and closed his eyes.

  Brock raised his head when the door opened once more. He was dragged back to his original interrogation room. Lupo returned to his seat on the edge of the desk and this time his friends remained with him. Brock spared a glance for the two, heavy-set, swarthy men who pulled him to his feet and stood him in front of Lupo. Lupo had a toothpick sticking from between his lips. He twirled it with his tongue as he eyed Brock curiously. Brock just wished the mad man would get on with whatever it was he had planned.

  “You interest me, Mr. Photographer. What is your name?”

  Brock hesitated but realized that there was no value in withholding the information—quite the opposite, in fact.

  “Lysander Brock. I’m in this country with full permission from your government. I work for National Geographic and I’m a British citizen. You can’t treat me like this.”

  Lupo removed the pick from beneath his teeth and spat a glob of something disgusting onto the floor.

  “The Colombian government are a bunch of American sympathizers. I follow my own rules.” He gestured to one of his colleagues and the man yanked Brock’s cuffed hands above his head and looped the short chain over a meat hook hanging from the ceiling. Brock bit back a scream as the position pulled on his shoulder and raw back.

  “Say I believe that you are what you say you are…”

  “I am! I’m just a photographer. I’m not American. I’m a British citizen. You can’t do this.” Brock jerked desperately at the chains but couldn’t flick them free, there wasn’t enough play.

  “Don’t think to tell me what I can and can’t do. Fucking arrogant Westerners. You’re in my world now and the rules have changed. I want to know what you saw when you…accidentally came across my camp in the forest.”

  “I didn’t see anything. I was exploring a cave system, taking pictures. I saw daylight and found an exit that I didn’t know existed. I explored a little and saw some tents, then people started shooting at me and I ran.”

  “And disappeared. Like magic.”

  “I just went back the way I came.”

  “What’s the phrase you English use…? You think I was born yesterday? You’re lying. You will tell me what I want to know. Strip him.”

  Lupo looked on dispassionately as the ropes around Brock’s ankles were cut so that his trousers could be removed. Brock swallowed bile. His stomach churned as the possibility of rape hit him hard. His head swam and only the cuffs on his wrists held him upright.

  Lupo chuckled. “The pretty man thinks we want his ass, my friends.” He jumped from the desk and moved so that he was face-to-face with Brock. Staring him in the eyes, Lupo reached between their bodies and took Brock’s limp dick in his hand. “Lupo can get all the women he wants. This is of no interest to me.” He took a step back and pulled a small glass jar from his trouser pocket. He held it up so that Brock could see the contents.

  “You know what this is?”

  To Brock it resembled a giant ant, dark brown with a stubby body shape.

  “An ant?”

  Lupo jiggled the jar, agitating the inch-long creature.

  “A very special ant. This one is called the bullet ant. It is said that getting stung by one of these is like getting shot by a bullet. The pain from the sting is said to last twenty-four hours and is the most painful sting out of all the insects in the world. I have seen someone stung by one of these. He said it was like fire-walking over charcoal with a three-inch rusty nail in his heel.” He gave Brock’s balls a squeeze. “Tell me the truth and I might be persuaded not to stick the end of your cock in this jar.”

  Every muscle in Brock’s body tensed as he imagined the pain to come. He clamped his mouth
shut. He would not betray Kyle. Any amount of pain was preferable to giving in.

  “I’ll give you some time to think about your choices, Mr. Brock.” Lupo positioned the jar on the edge of the desk and he and the other two men left the room.

  Brock had absolutely no doubt that Lupo was telling the truth. A single tear slipped down his face.

  “I spill my guts and that psycho is going to use his little pet regardless. He’ll do it for the fun of it. Punishment for not speaking sooner. Well, fuck him. What’s twenty-four hours of sheer bloody agony between friends?” Talking to himself didn’t help. For the first time since his capture, Brock felt truly afraid. He longed for his knight in shining armor to burst through the door, but there was no chance of that—no chance of rescue at all. He was alone and so far up shit creek that he’d need an outboard motor rather than a paddle to get down it again.

  Lupo came back less than ten minutes later and he was alone.

  With nothing to lose, Brock dredged some saliva from his dry mouth and spat at Lupo’s feet.

  “Do it, you fucker. I can’t tell you anything else, so do your worst.”

  Lupo ran his hand across Brock’s ass.

  “Take your hands off me, you son of a bitch.” Brock jerked his body away from Lupo’s touch.

  “So brave. So stupid. But my fun will have to wait a while. So many demands on my time. So many people relying on me. My pleasure must come second to more important matters.” Lupo unhooked the chain and Brock dropped to his knees. “I will have more food and water delivered to you. I want you fit to feel the agony I will inflict on you. It will be a pleasure to listen to you scream.”

  Brock brought his knees up to his chest, instinctively protecting his groin, expecting to be kicked or beaten. Lupo tapped his bottled torture device on the desk, pocketed it and left.