I threw my head back and laughed in earnest. “Oh really? Are you going to call me in to… Ah, there’s a snag in your thread, isn’t there? Here’s a hint, for free: don’t use a set of bolt-cutters to lop my toes off.”
“Seriously, K. I’m not the only one with questions. Rather I ask them than the others in that room?”
“I find it fascinating that you sold out to RailTech. What did it take? I know you better than to assume a bribe.”
He shrugged. “Orders from above. Just business.”
I started drumming on the table with my fingers. I shifted my gaze to the one-way again.
“Who did you buy, Strauch? Did you know that Vincent here was the one who helped me get inside?”
Vincent shrugged again. “Now is not the time for wild accusations, K.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Always the best at covering your own ass.”
“Now you just sound paranoid. What next, a massive conspiracy theory? RailTech was responsible for Red Masque?”
I pretended to think. “You know, in the movies, that’s what they call foreshadowing. Then I escape from here, expose RailTech and overcome some deep internal conflict. Save the cheerleader, save the world.”
“Because you have an exemplary record with cheerleaders.”
I rolled my eyes and clicked my tongue. “Ugh, let it go. Lock one squad in a burning barn and they never let you hear the end of it.”
“It wasn’t burning when you locked those doors.”
“Sue me. I had to keep them quiet. They were screaming.”
“They were only screaming because you’d worked over their captain with a nail gun.”
I waved a finger, looking at Vincent with faked suspicion. “Oh, you. Implying that cheerleading is an actual sport with your talk of captains. As if.”
He shot me a quizzical glance. Oh shit, who was going to water Quisling? Oh well.
“I had a captain in the—”
“Case in point.” I knocked the table again. “Murdering people for your government should be a sport. Is it a double or a triple score for kids? You could go for gold.”
I lowered my voice and grinned, leaning across the table as far as my bindings would allow.
“I’m talking about Prague.”
Vincent sniffed, reached across the table, and took back the file.
“I’m done here, for now,” he said, coldly.
I laughed. Guards walked in and flanked me. Adjusted to the light, my eyes picked up the RailTech insignia. It confirmed what I had theorised.
This is RailTech’s facility now.
I thought about struggling, but I was content to laugh. I didn’t stop until the door clanged shut behind me and I was alone in the darkness.
***
I tried to sleep. For an indeterminate length of time I succeeded. When I woke, the world was wobbling. I threw up into the toilet bowl.
“Sleep deprivation tactics? That’s original.”
The stream of gasp was faint: not enough to make me spitz out completely, but sufficient to nauseate me.
“Won’t help, you know. I went for a week without sleep in Africa. This is child’s play.”
My mouth was dry. The water from the tap tasted soapy, but it was better than nothing. I ran my tongue along my teeth and spent a few minutes picking plaque from them. The boredom and the nausea wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t going to break me.
I closed my eyes, curled up in the corner, and turned my attention to the snatches of fake-light on the back of my eyelids. I didn’t focus on them. I simply let myself become aware of their presence. My breathing was slow and measured. I started to play with time in this dissociated state, exploring the intricacies of a second and stretching it to hours and condensing hours into the space of heartbeats. I emerged refreshed and in control of my nausea.
It was a technique I’d picked up from Vincent, in Africa, during long stretches of staccato-combat. With the risk of an ambush too great to sleep, we all had to resort to different methods of recuperation. I found it ironic that his training was helping me withstand his methods.
Unable to measure time by numbers, I got a rough estimate by hunger. I hadn’t eaten since lunch with Johnny Markham. The feeling in my stomach put my time at about thirty hours since. Early evening, then. I wondered if they intended to feed me at all, or if they wanted to throw starvation into the mix. I went back to my meditation and pulled my thoughts away.
A faint scratching pulled me from my dissociation. Without moving I mapped it out. It came from my right, behind the steel sheeting. It was the scritch of claws on metal and concrete.
Rats in the walls.
I let the silence of my surroundings absorb me and focused entirely on the sound. It sounded like a lone creature.
Not like RailTech to let the vermin thrive.
There had probably been an infestation after the decommission. Despite all their technology and methodical ways, RailTech still couldn’t wipe out rats. There were probably roaches, as well. RailTech would have more luck clearing the filth from the gutterages.
***
I relived more of my favourite kills to stave off hunger. Vincent knew how stubborn I could be; he wouldn’t expect me to beg for food. It would come. They needed me alive. Vincent was driven by his desire to rescue Johnny Markham. RailTech probably had their own suite of questions.
I was in Damascus, lurking in the shadows of a mosque. Locked in a choke was a cleric. His struggles were weak; all energy drained as I blocked the blood flow to the brain. Within seconds he was unconscious; within a few minutes he had suffered irreparable brain damage. I slid out my boning knife and set to work. This revolution wasn’t going to trigger itself.
A body was trashing under my foot. He was a fire fighter, stronger and bigger than me. I’d surprised him, though, lured him in with smoke and plaintive, high-pitched cries. The damsel in distress was a siren in disguise. I’d thrown him into a full bath and stepped on his throat, steadying myself with the railing until the bubbles stopped rising. His axe made for a wonderful trophy.
I stepped backwards in time. Now I was in my alma mater, forging a suicide note. “This is the hardest thing I have ever had to write, so I intend to keep it brief. I cannot live knowing what you’ve done. Goodbye.” It meant nothing. There was no secret atrocity. I just wanted to see how her friends and family reacted. I read the words to her, dried her tears, and kicked the chair from under her feet. It was not a clean hanging.
A beam of light blasted into my cell through the door hatch, snatching me from my reverie. Her eyes, wide and beautiful, faded in front of me. A tray slid in on the floor. I turned my head slowly, to avoid betraying how famished I was. Before the light shut off, I saw what the meal was: some kind of mince-pasta combination. The cutlery was simple: a plastic instrument with a broad, square head. In theory, it was supposed to work as a fork and a knife, I think. It worked better as a shovel.
The meal was cold and thoroughly unpleasant. It was probably drugged. More importantly, it was nourishment. I’d have to level out the risks to retain my strength. I’d need it if I was going to escape.
Seconds after I’d finished, the hatch slid open again. I stared at the camera.
“It’s considered rude to watch people while they eat.”
I threw the shovelfork onto the tray and pushed the whole thing out with my foot. There was no real point in trying to keep it as a weapon. The light cut off and I was left in the darkness once again.
***
I was taken to Vincent the next morning. His watch read 07h42. I was tired, but I did what I could to hide that fact. I maintained eye contact as well as possible and did what I could to avoid yawning. Vincent seemed aloof.
“Morning, Vincent. It’s been too long.”
“Speak for yourself.”
I gasped playfully. “You wound me. Call the wedding off. My father will be around in the morning to collect the deposit.”
He sighed. “No
t in the mood.”
I rattled my handcuffs at him. “That would carry more weight if you were the one cuffed to a table. What is this, North Korea?”
“RailTech White Plains Research Facility.”
“Built on the shell of the White Plains Asylum? I’d guessed as much. So why am I not in…official custody?” I winked and shook a finger at him before continuing. “You made a deal with the devil, didn’t you? What was it? You get to question me, but I go to their box? Do you hold the keys?”
Something crossed my mind.
“Wait. Why the fuck does RailTech have a prison? Do you have any idea what the implications are?”
Vincent had been listening, a bored expression on his face.
“What implications, K? This entire level doesn’t exist. According to official records, neither of us exists. I’m interrogating a suspect who doesn’t exist, for a crime they couldn’t have committed, in a part of the world which does not exist. Our entire history is a batshit collection plucked straight from an Easton-Ellis adaptation of the Twilight Zone.”
“Fit enough literary references in there?”
“Something about Lewis Carroll and Thomas Harris? You’ve got to admit, the whole situation is a bit bizarre.”
Lecter in Wonderland. Follow whimsical Hannibal as he explores the delicacies in the land below the Rabbit Hole.
“Don’t even get me started on your freaksuite at the Midnight—”
“Valerie is dead, Vincent.”
His eyes softened for a millisecond. I could see he regretted bringing up the Midnight Hour.
“I know, K. I know you killed her.”
“You don’t really seem to care.”
“I do, in my own way.”
“How’s that way working for you? I assume your way entails selling out to the people who killed her.”
“You killed her, K. Don’t forget that.”
I pulled in a deep breath and slammed the table. “You think I’ll forget it? Fuck you. I brought death down on the head of one of the few people I found vaguely interesting. It’s not a position that gets filled by anyone.”
Vincent stared me down, coolly. “Your exhaustion is showing, K. Your outbursts, I get, but that was legitimate anger. You’re slipping. Where is the boy?”
I unclenched my fists. “We discussed this, Vincent. You got between me and Strauch. You interfered. Your punishment? Johnny Markham’s blood is on your hands.”
After a few seconds, I smirked and added:
“If he has any left, that is.”
Boom. Electricity coursed through my body. The attack was unexpected, and I screamed and thrashed at my bindings. The cuffs bit deep into my wrists as I struggled. It was over rapidly, but not rapidly enough. I opened my eyes and looked at Vincent.
He was holding a device to the table. A green light blinked evilly. It took a second to work out what had happened: the current had flowed through the steel top layer and cuffs, through me and into the floor. Vincent didn’t blink, and his finger hovered over a switch.
“I’ll ask again. Where is Johnny Markham?”
“I think you might be a bit late, darling.”
The second jolt made my muscles burn. I kicked backwards, but the chair was fixed to the floor.
“Ha. That… That tickles. Ha h—ah fuck!”
The current overpowered my instinct. I bucked wildly, trying to dislodge the cuffs and break the circuit. They held tightly.
“Not going to work, V. You can’t beat me, you don’t have the spine.”
“We’ll see.”
The fourth burst left me drained. I slumped over the table, gasping for air. My wrists were in agony. I felt blood seep from one of them. I lifted my head and hacked out a spiteful litany.
“You’re a failure. My greatest failure. Even now, so many years gone, you can’t touch me. Until you embrace that side of you, you’ll never break me. Fuck off.”
I braced myself as Vincent moved his finger. The electrocution was held off until I stopped to breathe: in the second of weakness Vincent blasted me again. A strange sound had filled the room: a sharp, rasping moan. It was coming from my throat. I had no control over it.
“This can stop any time you want.”
I mumbled something obscene. Vincent leaned closer. I struck out, trying to bite him, but he jerked back and pressed the trigger again. The shock was weaker this time, but it reduced me to a heap on the table. I forced a laugh. It was all I could do.
“I tried, V. I tried to teach you. I tried to show you the way to live. I failed. The boy is dead, Vincent. Because of you. Ha-ha-ha.”
The final dose of electricity threw me into a darkness. I woke up on my cot, bandages around my wrists. I came to life thrashing and sick. The gasp was flowing. There was a ringing in my ears, and I twitched relentlessly. Small flashes of light patterned the back of my eyelids. For a long time I tried to get into my meditative state again. No such luck. Hours passed in quiet agony.
#0201
“In my experience, there are two types of killers: messy killers and classy killers. Classy killers need patience, charm, a likeable visage, countless intricate tools and a barbed sense of humour. The only essential tool in a messy killer’s arsenal? A mop.”
21: Bite Me
I was pulled back to the interrogation room in what I assume was the evening. I cracked my knuckles and braced myself.
Eric Strauch walked in. I clenched my fists.
“We meet again. I think this means that I won, K. So much for a death in obscurity.”
I pretended to count something on my fingers. “You’re winning? Because the scoreboard currently reads twenty-four, nil. That’s a lot of families to inform, isn’t it? Eric?”
“Thank you, K. You are making what we are about to do very easy for me.”
“That’s me. The people pleaser.”
“Agent Vincent has taken an observatory role. Originally we intended to just kill you, but this is preferable. You took our information and hid copies around the internet. You are going to erase these copies. Then, we shall kill you.”
I pointed at him and narrowed my eyes.
“You didn’t take the incentivisation course, did you? If I’m going to die either way, that’s pretty poor motivation.”
“I was hoping that would be your response. Tell me: do you know what a nociceptor is?”
He placed a small vial of liquid on the table.
“I’m going to go with ‘A really terrible pick-up line’. Do I win?”
A needle and syringe were set down next to the liquid. Strauch smiled, and I eyed both objects warily.
“Actually, I’ll change my answer. Going to have to go with ‘Something not to eat while drunk’.”
“Your disposition is almost charming. A pity that it is ruined by the monster it tries to hide.”
He filled the syringe with the mystery substance and flicked the tip. A little part of me wished I knew what a nociceptor was. I had a feeling it wasn’t good news.
I twitched as he jabbed the tip in my arm. I regulated my breathing and readied myself for anything. Strauch maintained his smile and took a step back.
“Pain receptors, K. Pain receptors.”
The sensation started from the puncture and began to radiate through my arm and into my chest. A dull drone started up at the back of my head. My screams were shrill and uncontrollable.
Words fail to describe the pain I felt that day. My entire body was engulfed in agony. No searing brand, nor sharpened hook nor gunshot could have prepared me for it. My vision blurred and faded to black as my eyes rolled back in my skull. I tasted blood in my mouth from where I bit my lip or tongue. The drone in the back of my head bloomed into a piercing wail. The noises I was making were incomprehensible—some bastard offspring of a howl and a moan.
When the pain eventually receded, my world was upside down. My convulsions had carried me over my head and onto the table. My arms wrapped around my head, still cuffed to the surface.
Waves of pain continued to wash over me, but it was sweet bliss in comparison.
I tried to focus on the lines and rivets of the ceiling. I had to distract myself from the moment.
Heavy hands lifted me and placed me back in my chair. Small drops of blood seeped out from the bandages on my wrists: I’d clearly re-opened the injuries from earlier. Exhaustion doubled up on me. Words entered my ears and it took me a second to realise Strauch was talking.
“That was the diluted dose.”
The herald of future agonies.
I didn’t respond, instead choosing to collect my thoughts. Strauch’s voice sounded far away.
“Are you going to co-operate?”
I wanted to. Every fragile nerve in my body begged me to. I knew that the moment I did, I would die.
“I think... I think I’ll take my chances with the stronger dose.”
***
Blood pooled on the floor, spreading from a cut in my forehead. My hands throbbed. The cuffs were attached to a mangled piece of steel. I’d somehow wrenched it out of the table sometime after Strauch gave me the second injection.
My body was soaked in sweat. I barely had the energy to control my eyes as I was dragged to my feet and back to my cell. Despite the nauseating gas and the dizziness that followed, I fell into a solid sleep.
***
I woke up. I was not alone. In the corner of the room, inexplicably visible in the complete darkness, stood the boy. His platinum hair caught my eye and stopped the breath in my chest. He was on his haunches, staring at me intently. I spoke first.
“You.”
He opened his mouth, and responded with my own voice. It sounded alien coming from him.
“Me.”
I withered under the implications.
“You… You aren’t real.”
“Aren’t I?”
“Not now.”
“So you’re hallucinating? You see why that’s a problem as much as I do. Tell me, K—” His voice shifted and took on Vincent’s tone. “—are you feeling sane?”
Fletcher Page 17