by Jude Hardin
I needed another one of those shots.
I sat there and thought about it. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted it.
Stoneface came in with a female assistant and a surgery cart.
“What’s your name?” Stoneface said.
“It hasn’t changed.”
“What’s your name?”
“Nicholas Colt.”
“Since you’re eating, I’m going to remove your feeding tube. If you start cooperating in other ways, I’ll remove the urinary catheter as well.”
“I need something for pain,” I said.
“I thought you might.”
He reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out a syringe already loaded with medication. He injected it into my IV, and within seconds, I was blanketed with a euphoria that was nearly orgasmic. The pain in my leg was gone, and I didn’t have a care in the world.
“Better?” Stoneface said.
“Yes. Thank you.”
It only took him a few minutes to remove the feeding tube. The procedure didn’t hurt. I sat there and watched as though it were happening to somebody else.
“There,” Stoneface said. “All done.” He taped some gauze over the wound.
“I’m hungry,” I said. “Can I have some breakfast?”
“Certainly. What would you like this morning?”
“Ham. Ham and eggs and toast. And coffee.”
He turned to his assistant and asked if she could arrange that and she said no problem and left the room.
“Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?” I said.
“Was I not nice to you before?”
“You wanted me to eat that green paste. When I refused—”
“Let’s just say my plans for you have changed,” he said.
He snapped off his surgical gloves and tossed them into the metal trash can by the door on his way out.
The ham and eggs came and I ate them and drank the coffee and someone took the tray away when I was finished. This time, both my arms were unbuckled and the attendant didn’t strap them back when he left the room. Stoneface probably had a hidden camera somewhere and was watching to see if I would try to escape.
I didn’t.
I wanted to get out of there more than anything in the world, but there was no way I could run on the bum leg. I wasn’t sure I could even walk. I decided to play Stoneface’s little game for a while and see what happened. He’d said he had new plans for me. Maybe, if I played along, I could earn enough trust to be completely loosened from my bonds. Then I could shove those new plans up his ass.
The lights went dim and the movie screen came down and Flash Gordon came on again. It was the same episode, about the bomb that was going to blow the world up. I studied the images, looking away from the action, scanning the edges of the background scenery, trying to find any evidence that the film had been tampered with. Maybe Stoneface was trying to brainwash me with subliminal messages embedded in the video. Why else would he show me the same episode twice? Then again, maybe it was just another form of torture. Maybe he was going to slowly bore me to death with cheesy 1950s television.
I saw the ending this time and, just as I suspected, Flash saved the world with only seconds to spare. Flash and his teammates, a pair of scientists named Dale Arden and Hans Zarkov, had a good laugh about the close shave. They didn’t break a sweat or piss their pants or anything. They were cool as cucumbers.
Dale Arden was a beautiful woman. She reminded me of a young Donna Wahl. I wondered if Donna was busy putting together a civil suit against me for killing her brother. I didn’t see any way she could win, but a lawsuit would cost me some money and make my life miserable for a while and maybe that would be enough for her.
Revenge. Some great thinker once said that anyone who seeks it keeps their own wounds festering. Something like that. It makes sense, but like all sayings, it’s easy to say and harder to live. Revenge was part of the reason I came to Tennessee in the first place. I wasn’t proud of it, hated to admit it, but it was the truth. My first wife Susan and our baby daughter Harmony come to me in dreams sometimes. Especially Susan. I think it’s her laughter I miss the most. I can hear it in my dreams.
A guy came in and wrapped my sore leg with an ACE bandage. He didn’t say anything. He just came in and did it and left. A few minutes later, Stoneface came in with another syringe in his hand.
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t want that,” I said, gesturing toward the syringe.
“What’s your name?”
“Nicholas Colt.”
“This is your pain medicine.”
“My leg’s not hurting that bad right now,” I said. “I don’t need it.”
“Better to keep the pain at bay. It’s easier to control if you don’t let it get too severe.”
He moved to inject the contents of the syringe into my IV line. I pulled my arm away.
“I said I don’t want it.”
His expression didn’t change. It never changed.
“I want you to have the medication,” he said. “And as you know, there’s no point in resisting. I’ll get what I want one way or another.”
I thought about yanking the IV out of by arm, but if I did one of Stoneface’s goons would just come in and start another one. He was right. There was no point in resisting. I relaxed and allowed him to give me the injection.
The euphoria washed over me like a sweet warm wave. I was in heaven. I didn’t care that I was being held captive in a compound populated by lunatics. I didn’t care that the leader, the emotionless man with the face of stone, stood there staring at me now with those icy blue eyes of his. Everything was cool. Everything was all right.
I looked at Stoneface and smiled. “You were right,” I said. “I feel much better now.”
“Good,” he said. He reached down and unbuckled the straps on my legs. “Try to stand.”
I stood. I felt a twinge of pain, but it wasn’t bad.
“Feels good to be out of that chair,” I said. “Mind if I walk around a little bit?”
“Go ahead.”
I walked the perimeter of the room. It was a fairly large space, eighteen by thirty, I guessed. There was a sink and a long countertop against one wall and some metal cabinets with locks on the handles. The medication cart had locks on it as well, although I didn’t remember Stoneface ever using a key to access it. Maybe he left it unlocked for convenience. There was a computer, and a bookcase filled with old-looking medical reference books. If there was a hidden camera somewhere, it must have been hidden well. I did four laps, limping pretty badly on the last one.
I eased back down in the chair.
“How does it feel?” Stoneface said.
“Better.”
“Good. I’m going to let you start exercising some every day. Supervised, of course.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“About as far as I can throw you. But we’re going to work on that. Like I said, I have plans for you. I see great things in your future.”
“Mind filling me in on these great plans?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
He left the room and the screen came down and I rode the narcotic buzz while Flash and Dale and Dr. Zarkov saved the world again.
Weeks went by. There was no clock in the room, so I never knew if it was day or night, but I had constructed a calendar in my mind and I tried to keep track of the passing days. My calendar said April 1. I had no way of knowing if that was right or not, but I figured it was close.
I had been in the compound for over a month. The hole in my belly had closed up and my urinary catheter was gone and my left hamstring had completely healed. No more fluids, but I still had an intravenous access on the inside of my left upper arm called a PICC line. It allowed me to get medications and have blood samples drawn. I was getting three hot meals a day, whatever I wanted, and I had earne
d the privilege to walk to the bathroom by myself.
At some point, the man I had been referring to as Stoneface told me his name was Brother John. He had brought an exercise bike and some dumbbells into the room. I didn’t have much else to occupy my time, so I rode the bike and lifted the weights and did push-ups and sit-ups to complete exhaustion. I did it all day every day, like training for an event. I had the bike programmed to a plateau program and was ten minutes into the thirty-minute workout when Brother John came in holding a small pouch. I stopped pedaling and dismounted the machine.
“What’s your name?” Brother John said.
I had to think about it. “Alexander Maddox,” I said. “But my friends call me Maddog. Or just Dog.”
“Sorry to interrupt your session, Maddog.”
“It’s all right. I’ll just start over in a few minutes.”
“I wanted to give you this.”
He handed me the pouch. I opened it and pulled out a very nice gold wristwatch, a Rolex.
“This is a nice watch,” I said.
“I want you to have it.”
I put it on my left wrist and snapped the clasp shut. It was a little loose. I looked at the face and for the first time in a long time saw the time and date. It was Tuesday, April 12, 7:47 a.m.
“Is this date right?” I said.
“Yes.”
Somehow, I had lost nearly two weeks.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’ll be nice to be able to keep track of the time.”
“You’re welcome. It’s your reward for doing so well these past few weeks.”
The watch was nice, but I was only truly interested in one reward. “Can I have my shot now?” I said.
“I’ve decided we need to cut back on that,” he said.
“I need it. The last time you decided to cut back, I had a seizure and almost died.”
My fingers started trembling at the thought of doing without.
“Well, maybe we can work something out,” Brother John said. “I want you to do something for me.”
“What?”
He motioned for me to follow him. We exited the room and made a couple of turns and he opened a door and led me down a long hallway that reminded me of a hotel corridor. We came to a room with a 3 on the door and he opened it with a key and we walked in. It was a small room. There was a table and two chairs. On the table there was a black box the size of a dictionary with a toggle switch and a dial on it. A bundle of wires connected to the back of the box snaked across the table and disappeared into the wall.
“What’s this?” I said.
“On the other side of the wall, there’s a man hooked up to the machine. When you flip the toggle switch, with the dial on zero, he will receive a very mild electrical shock. As you turn the dial clockwise to one, two, three, et cetera, the shock intensifies. Anything above six is potentially lethal.”
“Forget it. I’m not doing it.”
“Then you’re not getting your shot.”
I took a deep breath. “What did this guy do to deserve to be tortured?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
Brother John sat in one of the chairs. He motioned for me to take the other one. I sat down and laced my fingers together to keep them from shaking.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Go ahead. Flip the switch.”
I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but I needed the shot. With the dial on zero, the shock would be mild and if I just went ahead and did it, I could get it over with and get my medicine and resume my workout and have a nice breakfast.
I flipped the switch.
A loud moan emanated from the other side of the wall, something you might hear in the waiting room of a dentist’s office. I flipped the switch to the OFF position and the moaning stopped. I felt nauseated and my left pinky was jittering like a rattlesnake tail.
“Now turn the dial to one and flip the switch again,” Brother John said.
Maybe one wouldn’t hurt that bad. It would only be for a few seconds. I wouldn’t let it go on any longer than that. I turned the dial and flipped the switch and the guy on the other side of the wall screamed and shouted as if someone had thrown him off a roof.
I turned off the switch. I picked up the wastebasket beside my chair and started dry-heaving into it.
“I need my goddamn shot,” I said.
Brother John got up and came around and emptied a syringe into my PICC line. I felt better immediately. We walked back to my room and he left me there in my chair.
I didn’t feel like exercising anymore.
Thursday, April 28. Breakfast came and I ate and drank some coffee. After breakfast Flash Gordon came on and after that I exercised and took a shower and walked to room 3 and tortured the guy on the other side of the wall. That had become my routine. Eat, watch Flash Gordon, exercise, take a shower, walk to room 3. Eat, watch Flash Gordon, exercise, take a shower, walk to room 3. Eat, watch Flash Gordon, exercise, take a shower, walk to room 3. My name was Alexander Maddox, and that was my life.
Brother John came in around eleven. It had been twelve hours since I’d had a shot, and I needed one badly.
“What’s your name?”
“Where’s my shot?”
“What’s your name?”
“Alexander Maddox. My friends call me Maddog. Where’s my shot?”
“How far have you been turning the dial?”
“Four,” I said. “Same as always.”
“I want you to go up to seven today.”
“It’ll kill him,” I said.
“I want you to go up to seven today.”
“I’m not a murderer.”
“What’s your name?”
“I can’t do it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Alexander Maddox. My friends call me Maddog.”
“Am I your friend?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to go up to seven today.”
I needed the shot. I couldn’t function without it. I got up and walked to room 3. Brother John followed me. We sat at the table.
“Give him one at zero,” Brother John said.
I flipped the toggle. The guy on the other side of the wall moaned in agony.
“This isn’t right,” I said.
“Turn the dial to seven.”
“What’s his name?” I said.
“His name?”
“If I’m going to kill someone for you, at least tell me who it is.”
“He’s an enemy. His name’s not important.”
“If I turn the dial to seven and flip the switch, you’ll give me my shot?”
“I have it right here in my pocket.”
I turned the dial to seven and flipped the switch. The guy on the other side of the wall made a long and continuous guttural grunt. It sounded like he was straining to take a shit. I wanted it to stop. I wanted to switch off the voltage, but I couldn’t. If I switched off the voltage, I wouldn’t get my shot, and not getting my shot wasn’t an option. I had to have it. I sat there and listened to the poor motherfucker for about thirty seconds, and then it was over.
“Is he dead?” I said.
“What do you think?”
“I want my shot now.”
“Where’s Dale?”
“Who?”
“Your girl. She’s in the Philippines. She’s in trouble. I need an address.”
“Dale. From the show?”
“Yes. She’s your girl. Don’t you remember?”
My hands were trembling. “I don’t remember any address,” I said.
“When you remember, then you’ll get your shot.”
I rose and grabbed him by the lapels of his lab coat. “You lying son of a bitch!”
A couple of muscle heads came in and pulled me off him and dragged me to my room. They strapped me into the chair and left the room and a few minutes later, Flash Gordon came on.
I had a feeling I had lost some of my privileges.
I
fell asleep for a while and had a weird dream. I was fourteen years old and my name was Maddog. I left my house and went out into the night and turned into a wolf. I went trotting down a dirt road naked and hairy in the moonlight. Something smelled delicious, something not far away, something just around the bend.
The heavy foliage lining the road opened to a clearing, a fenced pasture where a dozen or so goats grazed. Beyond the meadow was a barn, and beyond that a two-story farmhouse, white with black shutters.
It was like a living buffet spread out before me, an abundance of food there for the taking. I only needed to choose which little goat to murder.
A white one stood off by itself, apart from the group. That was the one.
I quietly climbed over the wooden fence and slinked through the dewy grass.
My breakfast was only a few feet away from me now. Its big black eyes looked out docilely at nothing, and its mouth curled up in a cute little smile as it chewed its cud. The end was coming soon, but it just stood there, oblivious, unaware of my presence. I began to salivate. My heart pounded with anticipation.
I pounced.
My teeth sank deeply into its throat before it could make a sound. In my peripheral vision, I saw the rest of the herd stampeding toward the barn. I wondered if they mourned the loss. I didn’t care. I had a single objective, to fill my belly as quickly as possible with the life struggling beneath me.
I clamped down tighter, and the goat went limp. It wasn’t dead yet, but it lay there relaxed, resigned to its fate now.
Instinctually, I knew the animal’s heart needed to stop before I began feasting. Otherwise, too much blood would be pumped out and lost in the ground. With a jerk of my head, I snapped the trachea and after a few labored wheezes, the goat died. I didn’t waste any time after that. I bit into the tender skin on the lower belly and ripped a midline gash. The coppery scent of fresh whole blood rose steamily into the predawn mist, and the beautiful coils of intestines glistened in the moonlight.
I lapped the blood pooling at the center of my crude incision before it had a chance to coagulate. I greedily chomped into the entrails, and then gobbled one tangy kidney and part of the liver. I peeled the hairy skin away from one of the hind legs and went to work on a length of muscle and fat. I tore the flesh away in strips, slurped it into my mouth like strings of spaghetti. The meat was warm and juicy and fresh. It was the best thing I had ever tasted.