by James Cook
To my surprise, I woke up.
There was an invisible man standing over me, dutifully pounding away at my head with a hammer. I thrashed about trying to locate him, to no avail. As it turned out, he was inside my skull, and he seemed to have a special hatred for the backs of my eyes.
I managed to sit up, but then had to hold perfectly still while a wave of crippling nausea ran its course. When I was reasonably sure I wasn’t going to start dry-heaving, I opened my eyes and looked around. The room was black, so dark I literally could not see my hand in front of my face. My hands were cuffed in front of me, and I could feel the cold weight of leg irons around my ankles. They had taken my clothes, leaving me naked on the floor.
Standing up, I explored the room, hands waving blindly in front of me. I found a wall and followed it until I counted four corners. The surface of the walls was grainy and splintery, the feeling of rough-hewn wood. Every few inches there was the cold smoothness of nails, and the barest hint of a gap between tightly fitted planks—the work of a skilled carpenter. Same story with the floor.
An indeterminate amount of time passed as I tried to find a place I could grip with my fingers, or jimmy with a link of chain, but there was nothing. Whoever had built this prison, they knew their business. Dejected, I sat back down.
Then came remembrance, and analysis of the last thirty-six hours, and self-recrimination at not casing Blackmire with anywhere near the level of diligence I might have displayed during my CIA days. I had grown conceited and impatient, infatuated with my own track record of operational success and battles survived. There were few who could match me in my pre-Outbreak days, much less after, and outclassing the competition for so long had made me complacent. Sebastian Tanner—AKA Blackmire—evidently did not suffer from such an affliction. And now here I sat, naked and in chains, awaiting what was going to be, without doubt, a painful, humiliating death.
No. Do not accept that.
I got up and searched the room again. Hours passed. Still nothing. No way out.
So sit down, and stew and simmer and boil, until sleep eventually comes. Then wake up with a dry throat and an aching belly, and start the process all over again.
No bucket. Pick a corner and ignore the smell.
Fumble about in the dark, whisper curses, get tired, rest, ruminate, let the imagination run wild with all the painful things they are going to do to you. Then locate your spine again and start pounding the walls. When that doesn’t work, sit down and silently vow you will not let them torture you. They made a mistake cuffing your hands in front of you. Whoever comes through that door is in for a fight to the death.
Then sleep.
Wake again. Same agenda as yesterday. Hear voices. Sharp scent of oak as you press your ear to the door, listening. Can’t make out what they say. Smile in the dark and decide to force the issue. Sooner or later, the screaming and pounding and door rattling on its hinges will bring them, and that will be your chance. But they never come, and your palms and feet are torn and bleeding, and your voice grows hoarse, then goes away altogether. Flop exhausted to the floor. Let out a hitching sob of frustration.
Remember the Saudi, and the month spent at Guantanamo, the gurgling and firecracker curses, refilling the water bucket again and again and again. No dice. Too tough. Time to change tactics. Then the dark room, and the night vision camera, and the waiting. It took a week of living in complete darkness, soiled in his own piss and shit, no human contact, no food, barely enough water to sustain life, and he finally broke. They hauled him howling and gibbering from that room, and for two weeks he sang like a dove. The interrogators never had to lay another finger on him.
Feel the dawning realization that this is not just retribution. Tanner is not doing this for the sole purpose of making you suffer. Hear the click as the mental gear turns and falls into place.
The Alliance’s expanding territory, the attacks, Hollow Rock, the Free Legion, Chinese rifles, Russian ammo, Korean ships, an ex-CIA operative with a hatred for his former agency. Why not hate the country while he’s at it? And if he gets a shot at payback for a long ago judgment call that didn’t go his way, then so much the better. Because the only thing more valuable than armed men anxious to carry out your will is information, and a gold mine just walked right on in and made himself at home.
It’s only been two and a half days.
How much longer?
*****
Five days.
The answer was five days. No food. Maybe two liters of water. Wake up, pain and rage, back to sleep. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Then they came for me.
They took no chances. They made sure I was asleep when the door slammed open and three men rushed in, all bearing plastic riot shields. Behind them came four more, piling on, batons swinging, feet kicking. I was already weak from hunger and exhausted from constantly pacing and trying to tear the room apart. A well-timed headbutt crushed one man’s nose, but other than that, it wasn’t much of a fight.
After re-cuffing my hands behind my back, they hauled me up and dragged me down a hallway. Wooden floor. Plank walls. Artwork, mostly impressionist prints. I caught a glimpse of a doorway with a few desks beyond, but it was gone quickly.
We emerged into a wide lobby with a receptionist’s desk at the front. Although the windows were shuttered, I could tell it was early morning. My feet barely hit the ground as they rushed me up the staircase and through a door at the top. Then I was dragged into a room with oil lanterns hanging from hooks on the walls, more artwork, heavily-laden bookshelves, and a low table to my right. On the table lay my weapons, pack, and equipment. They had even folded my clothes in a neat pile. The urge to fight loose from the hands gripping me and make for my rifle was strong, but I kept it in check. What good would it do? It’s not like I could operate an M-6 with my toes. Tearing my gaze away, I looked to the center of the room and at the man sitting behind a massive, ornate desk.
Tanner.
His men shoved me forward until I was standing just in front of the desk, then forced me to my knees. I felt the cold barrel of a pistol press into the back of my neck.
“You don’t look so good, old friend. Not much fun hanging out in the hole, is it?”
He was leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled, hat tilted low, milky left eye glittering in the lamplight. My brain was addled from starvation, exhaustion, and the beating I just took, so I kept it simple. “Fuck you.”
“Now that’s not very nice. Ron?”
A steel-toed boot slammed into my kidney, driving the air from me in a hissing gasp. If not for the hands gripping me, I would have fallen over. Tanner stood up and crossed the room, stopping in front of the low table where my gear lay.
“It looks like you’ve done well for yourself since the Outbreak, Gabriel. These are very nice things you have.” He picked up my falcata and slipped it from its sheath, turning it slowly in front of a lamp. “This sword alone is worth a small fortune. It’s a beautiful weapon; very well made. Where did you get it?”
It took me a moment to recover enough breath to respond. My voice came out in a thin wheeze. “A friend gave it to me.”
“Hm. Must be a very good friend.” He held the sword up to the wall, as if measuring where he wanted to hang it. “I think I’ll keep it. In fact, I think I’ll keep all of this stuff. Put it on display, maybe build a little shrine. Your skull can be the centerpiece. I’ll put it over a little stand with your sword on it. That would look very intimidating, don’t you think? Put people in the correct frame of mind when they walk in here. Inform them of who they’re dealing with.”
As the pain in my side faded, so did my fear. I was suddenly very tired of kneeling on the floor while this gloating asshole listened to himself talk. “Why are you doing this, Tanner?”
He sheathed the sword and put it back on the table, then slowly stepped closer until he was barely an arm’s length away. Kneeling so he was eye to eye with me, he pushed back his hat and showed me a gap-toothe
d grin. “There are several reasons, but at least one should be obvious. You left me to die, Gabriel. Needless to say, I took it personally.”
“It was a mission. You knew the risks. You would have done the same to me.”
Lights exploded in my head as he struck me a backhanded blow. “NO!” he roared, hands coming up and gripping the sides of my face, the one good eye barely an inch from mine, gleaming with feverish brightness. “I would have helped you! I would never have abandoned a fellow agent. Not like you did. That was unforgiveable.”
A tear began to snake down his cheek below the ruined eye, catching in the channel of his long scar. He absently flicked it away and stood up, gathering himself with a few deep breaths.
“Did you ever wonder what happened to me after your betrayal, Gabe?”
Betrayal? We barely knew each other. We were on a mission. He knew as well as I did that when an order comes down from your control, you follow it. End of. I opened my mouth to explain this, but when I looked up and saw the iron conviction on Tanner’s face, the words died on my lips. No point in arguing with a madman.
“I figured they killed you,” I said finally.
Tanner walked back behind his desk and took a seat. “Obviously not. But I tell you, Gabe, there was a long time there when I wished they had.”
He reached into a desk, took out a bottle of dark brown liquid and a glass, and poured himself a drink. “You see, we didn’t know it when we took the mission, but Gustavo Silva was already well on his way to taking over as leader of Las Sombras. He had been plotting and maneuvering for years. He was a careful man. Exceedingly clever and utterly ruthless—a dangerous combination. After we took care of Villalobos for him, it was a simple matter of ordering a few executions, and he was in.” He leaned forward, turning to stare with the good eye. “You’re probably wondering how I know all this, right?”
Play along. “The thought did occur.”
He sipped his drink and smiled. It traveled no further than his lips, and I noticed a muscle twitching under his blind eye.
“Silva told me all about it, many times. He always laughed when he did, and thanked me. He told me the CIA capturing Villalobos was the greatest favor anyone had ever done for him. And every year, on the anniversary of the day he captured me, he took another tooth.”
Putting his drink on the table he said, “Count the gaps.” Then hooked fingers into his cheeks and pulled them wide, turning his face to the light so I could see better.
There were five.
Releasing his face, Tanner said, “He loved trophies, that man. There were hundreds of them, but I was always his favorite. He kept me in a cell in the basement of his mansion. Five years, Gabe. Five years of beatings, and torture, and starvation, and hopelessness. Five years of listening to him laugh. He kept it dark. The only times when the lights came on was when they fed me, which was not very fucking often. I never got water two days in a row. Sometimes he would bring people down and show me to them, and say, ‘This is what happens when you cross me. You do not want to be this man.’”
Tanner leaned forward and ran a finger down the length of his scar. “He gave me this. It was a punishment, you see. Shortly after we reached Mexico, I got my hands on one of his men and killed him. Ripped his throat out with my bare fingers, but not before he shouted for help. The others found me and held me down while Silva cut into me. Worst pain I’ve ever felt, and that’s saying something.”
Leaning back, he picked his drink up and sipped again. “It’s not easy getting around with impaired depth perception. Common tasks become much more difficult. Take shooting your woman, for instance.”
His smile returned, and I felt a burning heat growing in my chest. If he noticed my rage, he gave no indication.
“That was a tough couple of weeks I spent watching you, sleeping in the cold, dodging the infected and those pathetic morons your people call guardsmen. But everything finally lined up, and I can’t tell you how satisfying it was to see the look on your face when you realized what happened. It was a thing of beauty.”
His eyes went distant and he let out a contended sigh. I strained at my handcuffs, teeth clenched, vision clouding over in crimson. The pistol at my neck shoved farther in, forcing my head forward. The men around me tightened their grips and growled warnings. Tanner went on as if nothing was amiss.
“The guy who brought me water used to piss in it,” he continued, studying his drink. “Then he would laugh when I drank it anyway. I’m quite certain I lost my grip on reality. I tried to kill myself a few times. Silva had doctors working for him. They kept me alive for his amusement. I almost reached the point I accepted I would spend the rest of my life in that stinking shithole, but then, lo and behold, a miracle happened.”
He stood up and cast his gaze to the ceiling, smiling rapturously, hands upraised, voice rebounding in the small room. “The Outbreak! May its glorious name forever echo through the pages of history, forever and ever, world without end, amen.”
Sitting down, he drained his glass, placed it on the table, and began filling it up again. “He starved me for ten days. Gave me barely enough water to live. He wanted me nice and weak. The day he and his men fled the city, he came down and unlocked my cell. I couldn’t even stand up. He said to me, ‘I am not doing this out of kindness, my friend. The world is a bad place now. I do not think you will last long. I think you will die screaming.’ And then he left.”
The room was silent for a long moment after that. Tanner’s men seemed fascinated by the story, gazing with rapt attention. He ignored all of us and sipped thoughtfully at his drink, lone functioning eye clouded with faraway memories. Just as I began to wonder if he was falling asleep, he finally came back to himself.
“So how did I survive, right? That’s what you’re thinking; I can see it. It was simple, really. I found the strength to drag myself upstairs and searched around until I found the kitchen. The power was out, but the food in the fridge was still cold. Silva’s men hadn’t bothered bringing the perishable stuff with them. So I ate, drank some water, and a few hours later, my strength started coming back. I explored the place, and let me tell you, I will never understand why he left. It wasn’t just a mansion, it was a goddamn fortress. Silva’s bright idea of killing me consisted of leaving the front gate open—not the most clever idea he ever had. I didn’t know anything about the infected back then, but I knew the screams and explosions and raging fires in the distance were not a good thing, so I shut the gate and locked it. When the undead showed up, they couldn’t get in. I stayed holed up in there, rationing what little food I could find until a few days later the Mexican Army showed up. They informed me I was in Juarez, and stuffed me in a truck with a few dozen other survivors. Took us all the way up to Colorado. I was admitted to a hospital there, a proper one, fully equipped. The doctors were appalled at my condition, as you might imagine, so they took very good care of me. Once I was healthy again, I took a job as a caravan guard and set out for Missouri to find out if my family survived. I’m originally from Poplar Bluff, did you know that?”
I shook my head, thinking about all the ways I would like to kill him.
“It’s true,” he said. “Less than two hundred miles from here. Place isn’t there anymore. I guess some marauders took up residence and the Army burned them to the ground. That was in the early days, back before the Alliance started getting organized. The Union wouldn’t try that now.”
He stood up and strolled to a window, brushed a curtain aside, and stared out at the first light of morning. “It’s hard, finding out you have no home left. You feel uprooted, like the compass is spinning and there’s nothing to hang on to. So I headed south to this place, the Chickasaw Refuge. When I was a kid, my father used to take me canoeing not far from here. Lots of fond childhood memories.” He paused, smiling ruefully. Through the window, I heard the first chirping of songbirds welcoming the sun.
“Those memories were quickly shattered,” he continued. “The whole forest was crawl
ing with infected. I barely survived the first night. On the third day, on the very spot where this building now stands, I ran afoul of raiders. Two of them spotted me and came after me. I was out of ammo, but so were they. I killed one of them and hurt the other one bad enough to run him off. A few hours later, he and his friends tracked me down. I took up my weapons and readied myself to die like a man, but they weren’t there to fight. Much to my surprise, they offered me a spot on their crew. Their leader, who you know as Marco, said if I was tough enough to handle two of his men, I was tough enough to be one of them. Lacking any other opportunities, I agreed. Long story short, we had a successful career, I took over the reins of leadership, and we built this fine community you see around you…” He spread his hands in a grand gesture, grin broadening. “Blackmire.”
I laughed, drawing an angry look from Tanner’s men. “What’s with the stupid name? Why do you call yourself Tribune instead of something normal, like governor or mayor? Is Sebastian too pussy of a name for these shitbirds around here?”
One of the guards raised a fist, but Tanner forestalled him with a hand. “Those are reasonable questions. To answer the first one, Blackmire is my mother’s maiden name. You see, my father was a useless drunk who beat us for entertainment, and I hated him almost as much as I hated my first name, Sebastian.” He said it like it tasted bad, and gave a little shiver. “That’s something you name a cat or a goldfish. Not a child. The Tanner family name meant less than nothing to me, and as far as I was concerned the man who had once been Sebastian Tanner died in that dungeon in Mexico. So I took the name of one of the very few people in my life I have ever loved. It seemed fitting the town should be named after her as well.”
Against my better judgment, my shoulders began shaking with laughter. “Great,” I said. “I’m being held prisoner by an egomaniacal lunatic with mommy issues. Maybe you should have changed your name to Norman Bates.”
This time, when the guard raised his fist, Tanner did not stop him. It hurt like hell, but I kept laughing. Tanner’s frown deepened as he continued.