by Jack Cuatt
“Of course,” Marshall snaps, abandoning his search to glare at his father. “Run along and play soldier. Leave the real work to me.”
“We have three days, Marshall,” the Colonel explains doggedly. “There's a lot to do.”
“Then go,” Marshall says impatiently. “We all have our part to play. Go play with yours.” He turns his back on the trio and goes back to pawing through the jumble on the table.
The Colonel does not respond to the jibe. He glances at Machine and then looks back at his son. “Money or no money, kill him. Tonight. Before the trucks arrive. We've had enough trouble from him already.”
“We've already had that discussion,” Marshall says without looking at his father. “Send in Helmut on your way out.”
The Colonel and his entourage about-face and leave the room, shoulders rigid. Before the door swings closed, Machine catches a glimpse of a brightly lit hallway and hears the electric whine of a huge turbine. The rumors must be true; the Militia really does have an arms factory down here. And considering the lateness of the hour, they must be working overtime, arming up for the coup.
Marshall looks up from the table at Machine. “Our thanks for the work on Sculli,” he says. “I never thought you’d make it out of the city alive. You're one of the best. It's too bad that I’m going to kill you tonight. A man like you could be very useful.”
Machine says nothing. He’s wondering what the Colonel's son is looking for. Whatever it is, it won’t be good. His stomach coils into cold knots, but he shows no fear, He’s been through too much violence, done too much killing in his young life to flinch when he reaches the end of it.
Marshall continues cajolingly, “You can still tell me where the money is. I rather hope you won't, but you do have that option.”
“You’re going to kill me anyway.” Machine works his feet in the ropes, putting stress against the wooden chair's frame. There’s very little give.
“True. The choice I'm offering is fast or slow,” Marshall replies as he peers down into a cardboard box. “A-ha,” he says, and reaches inside. He brings out a roll of wire with an electrical plug at one end and a metal rod with a plastic handgrip at the other. He plugs the wire into a power regulator that lies on the center of the table then slips on a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves. He switches on the regulator and turns up the dial.
The hall door opens and Helmut steps through. The left side of the German’s face and neck are mottled blue-yellow. Souvenirs from his fight with Machine at the Den of Thieves. He's limping, favoring his right leg.
“Got you now, little man,” he gloats in his heavy German accent. His voice sounds reedy from the blow to the throat Machine gave him. Helmut points to the bruises. “Tonight you pay for this.”
“Uncuff me and I'll make the other side match,” Machine offers, unfazed.
“Son of a bitch! I will—”
“That's enough,” Marshall barks. “Put on a pair of gloves and hold his head.”
Helmut heads for the table, still glowering at Machine, his pale blond brows lowered. He pulls on a pair of gloves.
Marshall picks up the rod by the plastic handle and dials up the power regulator. The hum of the machine is like a dentist’s drill, low and penetrating.
“This will hurt a lot,” he promises as he approaches Machine. “One last chance: where's the money?”
“I gave it to the NAACP,” Machine replies tonelessly, eyes on the steel rod. The surging electric current makes the rod vibrate. He steels himself for what he knows is coming.
Marshall gives him a condescending smile. “Very funny, but we killed the last of them seven years ago.”
Helmut circles Machine, stoops behind the chair, wraps one rubber-covered forearm around the teenager's throat and places his free hand at the base of Machine's skull. The body builder shifts his feet, using his leverage, and clamps down. Machine can’t breathe, but he doesn't struggle, it would be useless. He saves his energy.
“Jesus, don't kill him,” Marshall says with a frown. “Just hold him still.”
“I am fucking holding him still,” Helmut replies, but he loosens the choke hold just enough for Machine to draw a breath.
“Open wide,” Marshall says, leaning forward, guiding the rod toward Machine's mouth, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I find that the teeth are the most effective conductor of electricity.”
Machine clamps his jaw shut. His eyes show no fear. Torture is nothing new to him. But he can't control the way his heart beat accelerates as Helmut wrenches his head back until Machine’s neck muscles are stretched so tight that he cannot keep his teeth together.
Marshall leans in close. His breath smells like cough medicine. The rod glides past Machine’s front teeth.
“We'll start with the ones at the back and work our way up from there,” Marshall says husky-voiced as he touches the rod to Machine's bottom-right wisdom tooth.
Electricity courses through the rod, rockets into the tooth and explodes like a hand grenade inside Machine’s brain. Every muscle in his body contracts, his joints pop and the smell of burnt enamel fills his nose. The pain is unbearable. His vision goes red with spinning black spots. The current closes his throat, choking off his air.
A circuit breaker pops in Machine’s head and a black tidal wave drags him down. He sags in the chair, unconscious.
Machine awakes to a slap. Blinking his eyes, he looks around. He can't turn his head, it's clamped in a rubber vise. Helmut. He's soaked with sweat, arms and legs limp. He smells urine and knows he's soiled himself. Marshall stands over him, the rod in his hand.
“Where is the money?”
Machine says nothing. The pain in his jaw is intense, but his expression remains cold, closed off. He’s been through worse. Participated in worse. Red Sleeves was a master torturer.
Marshall grins and waves the rod in front of Machine's eyes then gets back to work.
He touches Machines left-bottom wisdom tooth.
A splintering pop lights up Machine’s skull and he blacks out again.
They keep at it for an hour, slapping him awake, cursing the stubborn teenager, but Machine doesn't talk. He retreats within himself. His mind is functioning on only the most primitive level. His jaw is swollen. His complexion is gray, his blond hair a sweaty mess. He looks like something on the far edge of life. But he has not given up on hopes of escape. He awaits an opportunity, hoping his body will respond when given the chance. But time and his strength are running out; Marshall Jones will kill him soon, money or no money.
Marshall is getting impatient. His shirt clings to him like a second skin. He's not smiling anymore. He looks frustrated. With a grimace of disgust, he tosses the rod on the card table, flips the power off and pulls off his gloves.
“Let's take a break, Helmut. I need a drink,” he says, frowning at Machine.
“Good,” Helmut responds, nodding. “A beer would be good.”
The turbine hum fills the room as Marshall steps out into the hall followed by Helmut. The German winks at Machine as the steel door closes.
The room is empty save for Machine, hanging slack in the chair.
Blinking his eyes, he straightens, rolls his head on his shoulders, and flexes his tortured muscles. He wonders if Marshall found the lock pick in his belt. If he did then Machine is dead.
Machine bends his wrists to their extreme, the handcuffs digging bloody furrows in his skin, and tries to reach the compartment in his belt. The handcuffs lock his hands behind the chair's center slat. The pick is out of reach.
Grabbing the slat with both hands, knowing that Marshall and Helmut will be back at any moment, he pulls and twists. The wood barely budges. He leans forward as far as he can, ignoring the pain in his shoulders and the throbbing buzz in his head, and puts his entire body weight into the effort. His head spins out of control and he sags sideways in the wooden chair, gasping for air. He shakes his head clear and tries again. The splintering sound of cracking wood makes his blood pu
mp faster, makes him pull harder. Another crack and the slat snaps in half and falls to the floor with a clatter.
Machine wastes no time. He slides the fingers of his right hand between his belt and his slacks. They feel thick, fumbling.
The room's door swings open and Marshall steps in. Helmut is right behind him, carrying a bottle of amber liquid and a half-empty glass. The pair smile at Machine. They look refreshed, ready to begin again.
Machine keeps his shoulders still and lets his head sag. His sweaty fingers close on the Titanium lock pick and a rush of adrenaline almost makes him reel. If he can open the cuffs...
From the table, Marshall gives Machine a smile and a wink as he picks up a pair of pliers. “Awake, I see. Most satisfactory. I've decided to try something new. Let’s see how you like this.” He approaches Machine. “A mouthful of crushed teeth and exposed nerve endings will give new meaning to the word agony.”
Machine's eyes fix on the pliers as his fingers rock the lock pick through the handcuff's key slot. He's practiced this a million times. One tumbler. Then the second. One more to go.
“You are a challenge,” Marshall says with genuine admiration. Helmut remains at the table, sipping from his glass, uninterested in the conversation.
The pick bounces the lock's last tumbler into place and the right bracelet drops free from Machine's wrist. He keeps his hands behind his back, rubbing his wrists to restore circulation.
Marshall leans forward, kissing close. “I'll break you yet,” he whispers confidently, his lips inches from Machine's nose.
Machine doesn't reply. He lurches to his feet. His head swims and he almost falls, but rage makes him strong. Pumps an overdose of adrenaline through his veins, firing his damaged muscles and blurring the pain.
Marshall’s eyes pop and he tries to turn and run, but Machine is too fast. He snatches Marshall's right wrist and twists it up and out, locking the elbow in its socket, then punches the joint with the heel of his hand.
Marshall's arm bends in the wrong direction, the joint snaps, splintered bone rips through his pale skin, and he screams. The rod hits the floor as Machine kicks Marshall’s feet out from under him. Marshall slams to the floor on his back. His head ricochets off the concrete and it’s lights out. Helmut just stands there staring, his jaw sagging, his simian brain trying to process the sudden turn of events as Machine turns and pulls the chair legs through the ropes that bind his ankles to them. Helmut is still staring when Machine steps forward and stomps down on Marshall's Jones throat. Cartilage crunches and Jones starts choking and gagging, flopping his arms and kicking his feet, his mouth forming a scream that remains trapped in his chest.
Finally Helmut makes a move. Machine hears the German coming and starts to turn, but he’s too weak and too slow. A flash of white light and he is on his knees, looking at the floor. He starts to push himself up, shaking his head clear, and is just in time to see the German's boot racing at his face. He throws up his arms and blocks the kick but the force of it knocks him sprawling. He rolls with the momentum, across the cold concrete, away from Helmut, and shoves himself up into a half-crouch.
Helmut is coming in fast, jaw clenched, eyes pinched to slits, a pipe wrench in his right fist, already swinging toward Machine's head. Machine throws himself left, dodging the swing, and rolls clumsily to his feet.
As Helmut spins to face him, Machine feints a punch then kicks the big man in the balls. Helmut gasps and doubles over. Machine snaps his knee into Helmut’s face and the German’s nose goes splat. The big man’s head snaps back, his teeth clack together, and the wrench clangs to the floor. Before he can recover, Machine kicks him in the stomach. Helmut doubles over with a gasp and Machine snaps his knee into his face again. Helmut hits the floor on his side. Machine kicks him three more times, getting his hips into it, rage making him stronger, invincible. The kicks almost lift the larger man off the floor, but Helmut doesn’t try to fight back; he just gasps and groans with every kick, then finally curls himself tight into a fetal position.
Breathing in ragged gasps, seeing everything through a red-tinted fog, Machine stoops and picks up the pipe wrench. He raises it above his shoulder and swings it down in a vicious arc.
Helmut lets out a one-syllable scream as the pipe wrench crushes his skull. The sound of cold steel striking bone is gruesome. Helmut goes still, but Machine keeps swinging, again and again until his strength is exhausted. He staggers back a step and lets the wrench drop to the floor.
The German is through. Blood leaks from his nose and the corners of his eyes.
The adrenaline drains rapidly from Machine’s body. His skull feels like it's filled with burnt wires, his vision wavers, and the room shimmers before his eyes. He has to lean against the table or fall down. He stays there a long moment, until his eyes refocus, then looks around for his weapons. The chest-pack is on the table, the contents intact, but the Smith and his straight razor are nowhere in sight.
Going to Marshall first, he pats both men down. Neither is carrying a firearm, but in Marshall's pants pocket he finds the straight razor.
Machine's clothes are covered in blood and reek of urine and sweat. He looks at Helmut, curled up on the floor like a dead caterpillar. Helmut's clothes are too large, but better than the mess Machine is currently wearing. Quickly, feeling the moment when the door will open, he wriggles the muscle man out of his pants and shirt then strips to his underclothes. He straps the chest-pack to his bare chest and redresses in the dead man's clothes. With the razor in his hand, he crosses to the door, crouches in front of it, and eases it open a crack. The hall is empty. The turbines are still humming somewhere close by. He steps through, closes the door softly behind him, and walks down the hall on the balls of his feet. His arms and legs feel rubbery, but soldier on. He doesn't have much strength left, but he'll run at full speed until it's gone.
He follows the hall until he reaches a junction, wider and better lit. It leads to the left and right, appearing to extend well beyond the limits of the old movie theatre. It appears that the Children of The Blood have taken over the lower levels of every building on the street. Instinctively, he takes a right. Immediately the electric whine of the generators increases and the air takes on the stale flavor of spent current, burned insulation and oil. Orange signs bolted to the wall inform him that this is an Ear Protection Area. He moves faster and takes a left at the next opportunity, the electric drone pounding his ears, growing louder with every step. Still no one in sight. The turbine noise is almost unbearable. He reaches the end of the hall, his passage blocked by a steel fire door. He tries the handle, wondering what he's going to find on the other side. The door is unlocked. He opens it a crack and looks down another hallway just like the one he's in. It’s also empty. Metal racks hang from bolts set in the ceiling supporting a multicolored assortment of cables and wires. He steps through and closes the door behind him. The noise is instantly cut by ninety percent.
Machine turns left and starts to trot, his legs so unsteady that it’s more of a limping shamble. The hall ends in a junction with another hall. He's thirty feet from that junction when he hears two men talking, their voices growing steadily louder. There’s no place to hide and no time to turn back. His eyes come to rest on the metal racks hanging from the ceiling. He puts the razor in his pocket, jumps and grabs the edge of the rack on the left. It takes all he has to chin himself up and over. He rolls out flat on top of the cables and eases the razor from his pocket.
Two Militia men in green camo turn the corner at the end of the hall. Both are wearing belted side-arms and bush hats.
“I tell you, something big is going down,” the one on the left says.
“I'm ready for it. It's about time we kicked some ass.”
“Just sounds like another chance to get dead to me,” the other replies sullenly. “Another Pittsburgh.”
“You shouldn't say shit like that,” the one on the right replies, looking sidelong at his partner. “I mean, I know you're just talking
, but if someone else hears you...”
The two pass directly under Machine and continue their conversation as they walk down the hall. Machine stays put until he hears the turbine hum increase, indicating that the men have entered the hallway he left just a moment ago, then eases himself over the side of the cable rack and drops to the floor. He proceeds to the end of the hall and turns left down another gray corridor. At the end of it, a set of stairs leads up to another corridor. He takes another left, feeling that he must be getting close to the end of the block.
The hall ends at another steel door. Cautiously, he opens it a sliver and looks out onto a loading dock that fronts a huge truck bay. Packing crates and cardboard boxes fill the dock. Hundreds of them, all shapes and sizes. Enough equipment to supply an army. Enough weaponry to stage a coup…
Machine ducks through the door and steps behind and between a haphazard jumble of piled boxes that provide cover on three sides. The boxes are labeled FATIGUE BLOUSE M. Enough shirts for a battalion. He cautiously raises his head above the boxes and takes a good look around. Lots of cargo but no movers.
A movement near the roller doors catches his eye. A bony face topped by a fatigue cap appears between two olive-drab crates. No other guards in sight. Machine ducks back down. The Colonel had mentioned trucks, but they must not have arrived yet. And there’s only one soldier here to protect the store…
Machine steps out of the cardboard cul-de-sac and slips along the dock to a spot where the boxes are densest. He stops again as the guard makes another trip past the roller doors, lethargically shuffling along.
Machine creeps forward, weaving through the piled boxes and crates until he's just feet from the soldier's path. He ducks down between two towering stacks of crates, cupping the straight razor. The soldier makes his turn and approaches. He passes without taking his eyes off the floor. Swiftly, Machine rises and steps out behind him. The guard hears something and starts to turn, reaching for the .45 holstered to his waist, but the reaction comes too late. Machine clamps his right hand over the man's mouth and drives the razor into the soft flesh at the base of his skull, severing his spinal cord and spiking into his brain. Machine gives the blade a twist and the soldier goes limp.