by Ryan King
"No," whined Moses, shivering at the horrible images of sterile white rooms filled with pain. "Not going back."
Then we need a plan, said Delores. A way to get off this island.
And not get caught, said Billy.
The voices were silent for a time as Moses thought. He watched the truck pull away with their new prisoner and then watched the girl run inside. Strangely, she seemed upset.
How far are you willing to go? asked Nate.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," whispered Moses.
You may have to get dirty in order to stay free, said Nate, not unkindly. Better start preparing yourself now. They won't have any mercy with you if they catch you.
Moses suddenly remembered Old Slimy. The drunkard had smelled to high heaven but had been kind to Moses and helped protect him when Moses had been new to the streets. Most of the time the man was out of his mind, but he talked about his three tours in Vietnam as part of something called long-range reconnaissance, and he never tired of telling Moses stories. Many of those stories were disturbing, but Moses had listened all the same. Slimy had been a master at setting booby traps in Vietnam and used those skills to keep others away from his underpass. In time, Slimy taught Moses how to set and tend the booby traps and even showed him more deadly snares.
Yes, said Nate, you have everything you need.
The image of the fishing gear and tackle box came to mind.
But be careful, warned Billy again.
And find a way to get us off this damn island, said Delores.
First things first, my dear, said Nate.
Moses turned and melted into the woods.
Chapter 18
The truck followed a narrow trail through the woods that was really no more than a wide path. Easing around tree trunks and soft spots in the mud and dirt track made for slow going and gave Jack time to think.
They haven't killed me yet, he thought, so maybe I'm going to wherever Heather, Charles, and Amanda are...if they're still alive.
Realizing he only had a certain amount of time before he got to his destination, Jack tried to come up with a plan. As a lawyer, he had some experience with the prison system, and something told him he was about to be acquainted with a similar pleasure. They would search him, strip him, take everything from him, and then lock him away safe and sound.
Jack ran his hands through his pockets. A cell phone that was low on battery and couldn't get a signal, keys for his car, a wallet and...Uncle Johnny's pocketknife.
Part of Jack shied away from the idea. He tried to tell himself that this was some sort of elaborate hoax or that someone would come to save them. But then he remembered the bodies of Brian and Evan. He remembered Rena's last look, as if she knew he was going off to die.
Before he could hesitate, Jack cupped the knife in his hand. He looked to make sure none of the soldiers were looking his way, but they were all focused on the road and each other. With difficulty due to his bound hands, Jack carefully slid the knife down the back of his pants and pressed it in between the cheeks of his ass. It was uncomfortable, and not as secure as putting it in his anus as convicts did, but he couldn't go that far. It would hopefully escape any casual search, but nothing extensive. With any hope they wouldn't be expecting a lawyer from Lafayette to have any tricks up his...well, up his sleeve, per se.
Sitting back and trying to relax on the bumpy trail, Jack began to detect an odd stench. Like rot mixed with vegetation. He gazed ahead and saw a fenced compound with barracks-like structures and several tall radio towers. A cheerful sign at the front gate declared, “U.S. Government Department of Agriculture Canine Training Facility. Trespassers Will Be Detained and Prosecuted.”
The vehicle stopped at the gate, and a guard approached from a nearby shack. Jack now heard the sounds of barking dogs, dozens of them, and spotted rows of single run kennels. Each contained an inside portion and a gate to let a dog outside into a twenty-by-five foot section completely enclosed by chain-link fencing. Rows of these dog runs ran adjacent to each other with large working-type dogs barking and jumping at the sound of Jack's vehicle.
"Badge, please," said the guard.
"Good god, Fred," said the driver. "You know it's us."
The guard's face scrunched up tight. "Lyles, you're supposed to show your badge. Those are the rules."
"He's just doing his job," said Urchart, flashing him a laminated card from inside a wallet, "and a mighty good job, I should say."
The guard smiled and proceeded to unlock and pull open the gate for them to pass. After the vehicle had pulled through, Jack watched the guard lock the gate back up using a ring of keys in his pocket before retreating to his guard shack.
The compound appeared to be composed of nothing more than barracks-type buildings and dog kennels. Stopping in front of one of the barracks, the four soldiers exited the truck.
"You three get him processed and settled," Urchart said, walking away. "I'll go check on things."
"Yessssir," said Lyles slowly. He then motioned for another soldier who unlocked Jack's cage.
"Come on out of there, little doggy," said the man with a cruel smile.
Jack stood and moved forward slowly, trying not to let the knife slip out. He attempted to look wobbly on his feet, which wasn't too hard considering he was still recovering from his bullet wound. Two of the soldiers reached up and grabbed him by the upper arms and helped him out of the vehicle to the ground. They led him up a set of wooden stairs and into a Spartan room where a man sat behind a desk. He looked up tiredly from a magazine he was reading.
"Got one for ya, Keith," Lyles told the man behind the desk.
"I can see that," he answered and then looked at Jack. "Place the contents of your pocket on the desk here."
Jack laid his wallet, phone, and keys on the table.
Keith picked up a clipboard and pen. "Name and address?"
"I'm Jackson Winters," Jack stammered. "From Pens Street, Lafayette."
He paused in his writing. "You don't say? I went to high school in Lafayette."
"Stop fraternizing, Keith," said Lyles, pushing Jack in the back. "Just get him processed so we can have lunch."
Keith looked the other man up and down. "Like you've ever in your life missed a meal. I know you're skinny, but you eat more than any two normal men."
"All the more reason to hurry the hell up before they run out of food,” Lyles responded.
"Okay," said Keith, handing Jack a trash bag. "Take off all your clothes and put them in this bag."
Jack hesitated, but saw they were serious. He slowly stripped, turning his backside to the wall whenever he had to bend over, but they were in a hurry. When he was finished, Jack handed the bag to Keith who attached a note card to it before he tossed it into a pile of similar bags behind him.
"Go over there and shower," Keith pointed to a large communal stall without curtains. "You'll want to clean off real good, might be the last shower you have in a while, but be quick about it."
Jack turned on the water, and it was ice cold. He waited a few seconds for it to warm up but felt the point of a baton in his back.
"This ain't the Ritz, sweetheart," said one of the soldiers. "Hurry up unless you want us to crack your skull."
Jack moved into the frigid water and gasped. He picked up the dirty bar of soap and quickly washed himself before turning the water off and stepping out.
Keith had moved out from behind his desk and tossed Jack a threadbare towel. "You're about six foot, aren't you?" he asked.
"That's right," said Jack.
The man moved over to a shelf lined with stacks of orange jumpsuits and pulled one off the ledge along with a pair of socks, underwear, a white t-shirt, and Velcro shoes. "Try these on."
Jack quickly got dressed. He could feel the knife slipping out. The underwear just cleared his rear before the pocketknife slipped free. Jack quickly put on the jumpsuit to hide the odd bulge, but none of the men were watching him closely.
Fully dressed, Keith handed him a rough wool blanket and a stained pillow. "This way," he said, walking to the rear of the building.
Jack followed and felt two soldiers fall in close behind him. They went through a door and were back outside. There were a series of locked gates in front of them set side by side. Jack realized these were dog kennels like the ones he'd seen in the front of the camp, but there was no sound of dogs.
"That one there, where the old crazy spic used to be," Lyles said, motioning towards the third cell from the left end and unlocking the door with a set of keys.
Jack walked in and saw a small cot against the wall with a thin mattress, a bucket in the corner, and another door at the opposite end. There was a faucet on the wall that fed into a small depression in the concrete.
"Use the bucket as a toilet," Keith said. "You trade out every morning when you get breakfast." He pointed at the other door, which opened to the enclosed dog run. "That will be opened for one hour each day; use it wisely. Now enjoy." He shut the door and locked it behind him.
Jack stood feverish and dizzy. His chills had returned with a vengeance. He looked around uncertain what to do. Eventually, he lay down on the cot and pulled the blanket up over him.
He tried to think of what to do next but quickly fell asleep.
Chapter 19
Jack awoke from a troubled sleep long enough to pull the pocketknife out of his underwear and hide it in a hole in his mattress. Thirst racked him. He crawled over to the faucet and stuck his mouth under the opening while turning the handle. The water tasted like iron, but his body craved it, and he drank until he thought he would be sick. He then climbed back under the wool blanket trembling with fever.
The next morning he awoke to banging on the door and angry words about his bucket, but Jack couldn't move and wasn't even sure if anything around him were real. He kept trying to find his cell phone so he could call Cindy at work and tell her maybe she should put someone else on Dean Lyon's hearing, but nothing was where it was supposed to be.
Hazy figures entered his cell and then carried him out into sunlight. Soon, they were lying him down on a real bed with medical equipment.
"Am I at the hospital?" he asked, a dark-skinned man inserting an IV into his arm.
"No," the man answered with a curious Caribbean accent. "You are in the infirmary. I believe you have a fever due to an infection from your injury." He unzipped Jack's jumpsuit and examined the shoulder wound.
Jack laughed as memory flooded back to him. "It's not an injury. I was shot."
The man shrugged. "You still have an infection."
"Thirsty," Jack rasped.
He shook his head, pointing at the IV. "The saline will hydrate you better than water. Besides, you need to rest." Reaching into a medical cabinet, he pulled out a small vial of clear liquid and a syringe. He then turned and pressed the liquid into his IV."
"No!" said Jack. "Must stay awake."
The man patted Jack's arm kindly. "You need to rest my friend. Plenty of time for you after you rest."
Jack started to argue, but he slipped into oblivion.
He later awoke gradually to the sound of classical music. Opening his eyes slowly, he saw the same dark-skinned man reading a book.
"What are you reading?" asked Jack with a raspy voice.
The man looked up with a smile and showed Jack the cover. "Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. Have you read it?"
Jack nodded. "In high school, one of the things that made me want to become a lawyer."
The man looked surprised. "You’re a lawyer? I knew you didn't look like the normal inmates here."
"Inmates," Jack asked. "What is this place?"
Shrugging, the man started to examine his IV. "They tell me it is a rehabilitation camp for political prisoners."
"What?" Jack exclaimed. "That's ridiculous. There's no such thing. Not in America."
He shrugged again. "What do I know? I'm not from here."
"Not from here? Who are you?"
The man smiled. "Forgive me, I am Dr. Xavier Simone. I am from Haiti."
"What are you doing here?"
Xavier sat and looked around to make sure they were still alone. "I was on a large boat from Haiti. We were trying to make it to Florida, but your Coast Guard picked us up and questioned us. Everyone else was sent back, but once they found I was a doctor, they offered me this opportunity."
"Opportunity? What kind of opportunity?"
Xavier smiled. "I serve as the camp doctor and they make me an American citizen. I'll even be able to send for my wife and kids."
"And if you don't mind me asking, what kind of doctor are you?" Jack asked.
"Pediatrician," he said proudly. "When I leave here, I will help children instead of political prisoners."
Jack sighed. "I am not a political prisoner."
Xavier shook his head. "All political prisoners say that."
Clenching his fists, Jack closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. "Can you tell me about my friends? Are they here? Are they okay?"
The doctor looked at the closed door. "I'm not supposed to—"
"I don't want to get you in trouble," Jack said. "I just want to know if they are alive and okay. Two pretty women and a big black man."
Xavier's eyes lit up. "Ah, yes, Charles. Very big man. I see him often. He fights with the guards, and they bring him to me to patch him up afterwards. I try to tell him he should not do that, but he is a very angry man."
"Actually he's not," said Jack.
"He should not fight the guards," Xavier insisted. "They are only here to protect you until you have been rehabilitated...or..."
"And then they are released?" Jack asked. "Is that how it works?"
The doctor looked confused. "It is a long process, I am sure, all for a greater good—"
"You've never seen anyone get released from here, have you?"
"I am just the doctor," Xavier hissed. "They do not consult me about when to take someone. How would I know when you prisoners come and go? Prisoners are here, and then they are not. That is all."
Jack thought he heard voices in the hall. He whispered frantically to Xavier, "If you see Charles again, tell him I am here. Tell him his friend Jack is okay."
Xavier looked torn, but the door opened and he looked away.
Jack recognized Brennen as the soldier who searched their boat before Jack was shot by Urchart.
"How is he, Doc?" Brennen asked.
Xavier consulted a chart. "His fever is under control, but you should bring him to me every other day at least to change his bandage. Also, light duty for now."
Brennen looked at Jack. "Hear that, light duty, you lucked out, partner."
"Yes," answered Jack. "I've got to be the most fortunate person in the world."
Chapter 20
Captain Rory Flannigan sat on the edge of a chair and fidgeted outside the office of his commander. Lieutenant Colonel Abraham was reputed to be the best battalion commander in the entire brigade, but he wasn't one to overlook mistakes. Flannigan was afraid he had made one.
1st Battalion of the 187th Infantry Regiment, the Rakkasans, was expected to ship out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky for Kandahar, Afghanistan in less than six weeks. They had a ton of training and pre-deployment checks and not much time to get them done. And now his most experienced platoon sergeant hadn't returned from leave and the platoon leader was a cherry lieutenant.
"Rory," called out Abraham from his office. "Come on in here. What's going on? Your men ready?"
"Sir, I'm afraid one of my men hasn't returned from leave and we can't get in touch with him," Flannigan said nervously, standing before his commander's desk.
"How long overdue is he?" Flannigan asked.
The captain sighed. "Seventy-two hours, sir."
Abraham looked at him sternly. "Seventy-two hours is AWOL. Hell, twenty-four hours is AWOL. I should have known about this immediately."
"Yes, sir," Rory stammered. "I'm sorry. I just thought
Sergeant Winston got hung up or something."
"Sergeant First Class Brian Winston?" Abraham asked.
"Yes, sir."
Abraham nodded. "A good man. Not someone to run off before a deployment. I'm presuming you tried all the contact numbers we have for him."
"Yes, sir," Rory answered. "No answer on his phone. The leave address has a sister in Baton Rouge, but no answer there. We pulled family data from his military life insurance, and I talked to his mother."
"She any help?"
"A little," Rory answered. "Said Sergeant Winston and his sister Amanda were meeting some college friends down at Avery Island for the weekend. She said her daughter pulled a lot of camping gear out of their garage."
Abraham thought for a moment. "He could be in some sort of trouble. Maybe in a hospital or something. Have you reported this yet?"
Rory shook his head. "Sir, I didn't want to get Sergeant Winston into any trouble. He's my best soldier."
"I understand that," answered Abraham, giving the young officer a stern look, "but this is about more than protecting the soldier's career. What if he's lying in some ditch or floating on a broken boat in the Gulf? Go ahead and report him as AWOL to the Provost Marshal. Make sure they have all the info you have given me; they'll reach out to the proper authorities in Louisiana. If Sergeant Winston has a good reason...a damn good reason...for being AWOL and not calling in, we'll be able to take care of him."
"Yes, sir," answered Rory. "Sir, about first platoon...without Sergeant Winston, they're real light on experience."
Abraham shook his head. "I don't have anybody to give you. Tell that lieutenant to get his head out of his ass; it's about to get real serious in a couple of months. And pray hard that Brian Winston shows up."
"Yes, sir," said Rory.
"Keep me informed."
Rory saluted and fled, grateful he had gotten off so easy.
Lieutenant Colonel Abraham sat and pondered uneasy thoughts. This was no time to be without one of his most experienced combat leaders. Something clicked in Abraham's mind and he snapped his fingers.