“I’m hitting the snooze button!” I shouted back.
The bullet-faced man’s smile vanished. “You hit a button, and I start hitting you.”
“I’m up!” I said, throwing up a hand which I quickly placed down. With much effort, I torqued my limp legs over the edge of the cot.
I waited several seconds for assistance that wasn’t forthcoming, and then I began the slow crawl toward the cell door. I reached up and grasped the bars, and the bullet-faced guard pulled the door open. Then he reached down and snagged a handful of my shirt and lifted me up off the ground. He tossed me over one shoulder like a sack of trash and struck off down a corridor.
“What’s for breakfast?” I asked.
“Yesterday’s vomit,” the guard said.
I scrunched up my nose. “I wasn’t hungry anyway.”
The guard carried me past the other prisoners who were lining up for a roll call, hooting and hollering as we breezed by. I was transported down another corridor and through glass-pebbled doors marked “Infirmary,” into a boxy space cluttered with medical equipment. Stryker was inside with three hulking men dressed in scrubs whom I assumed were orderlies. The bullet-faced guard deposited me on top of a metal exam table. Stryker smiled.
“How was your first night?”
“Slept like a baby,” I replied.
“You wetted yourself,” Stryker said, gesturing at my pants. I think he thought that was going to embarrass me, but I didn’t really care. I was lightheaded with hunger and dizzy from everything I’d experienced. Where I’d felt fear and surprise earlier, I now only felt anger. Frankly, I was beginning not to give a damn about anything anymore. I’d gone through the various stages of grief or whatever it was called, and I was down to the point that I assumed Stryker and his boys were going to beat the holy hell out of me and then I’d be tossed into some dank pit never to be seen again. They might think they were going to scare me, but I made a vow to myself. They could do what they wanted, but they were never going to break me.
There was a knock at the door, and a nurse entered holding a tray of something that brought my senses to life. I could smell garlic and fried onions and eggs, good Lord, I smelled eggs! My mouth filled with saliva and I stared at the tray that was heavy with fruit and scrambled eggs and a fistful of hash browns that had that nice brown crust on the outside that makes them so tasty.
Stryker made a motion to me as if to say the food was mine for the taking. I devoured the food on the tray in seconds, and it was the greatest single meal I’d ever eaten. Once finished, the orderlies removed my clothes and dressed me in new undies and a set of compression pants and shirt, the kind of gear I used to see some of the resistance fighters sporting.
Then I was carried through a door in the back of the infirmary that led to a circular space whose walls were covered in tinted, one-way glass. The room was filled with exercise equipment and a variety of machines of the sort I’d seen used to test the performance of athletes in sporting events: lots of treadmill-type devices, machines hooked to cables with weights, everything tethered to banks of computer equipment.
I was placed on the ground, in the middle of what looked like an immense metal disc. There was a seam that ran down the middle of the disc as if the two parts of it had been pressed together, tongue-and-groove style. I stared at Stryker.
“Have you ever heard of tough love?” Stryker asked.
“Is that … the porno movie?”
Stryker shook his head. “No, Mr. Deus. It’s an exercise protocol. Are you familiar with exercising?”
“I’ve done plenty of twelve-ounce curls if that’s what you mean.”
I smiled. Stryker did not. His brow creased. “Look, man, I’ll be honest. I’m not a huge fan of sweating,” I added.
Stryker grinned. “Sweat is the tears cried by fat as it’s being burned off.”
I just stared at the guy, dreading what was going to come next. Stryker pointed to a wooden ramp that was thirty feet away. “You are to crawl to that in one minute, Mr. Deus.”
“With the help of what machine?” I asked. Then I whistled and pointed down at my legs. “Remember these puppies?”
“Fifty-nine seconds,” Stryker said.
I scrunched up my nose and just sat there. Then the disc under me, the two sections of metal wedged together, began vibrating. Then the sections began pulling apart. “Hey!” I shouted. “What the hell?!”
Stryker folded his arms across his chest. He grinned, and I began to panic. I could see that there was something under the disc, maybe eight or ten feet below. A pool of water. If I didn’t bust my ass, I was going to fall down into that pool.
My right hand shot out, then my left. I gripped the edge of the metal and began pulling myself forward. I rolled off the remainder of the disc as it widened, like an eye opening. Stryker continued to shout times at me. I wasn’t gonna make the ramp in a minute, but I’d get there. Inch by brutal inch, I hauled myself forward, grunting, heaving, a sour taste in my mouth. Stryker yelled, and I yelled back. He hurled obscenities, and I yapped back, giving as well as I received.
Four minutes later, I was lying at the top of the ramp, sheened with sweat. Folding onto my side, I peered up at Stryker. “So … are we done for the day or what?”
“It’s like the old song says, Mr. Deus. We’ve only just begun. Pain will soon be your best friend.”
I manufactured a smile. “Bring it on, baby.”
* * *
Over the next few hours, the “therapy” I endured likely would’ve violated the Geneva Convention back in the day. I voluntarily hung from ropes and metal loops while Stryker shouted words of encouragement or insults (I couldn’t tell which). Periodically, he’d push me down as I was crawling forward and then berate me when I didn’t roll over quickly enough. I was winded and sore, but I never gave up. Several times I stopped to catch my breath and saw forms toiling behind the one-way glass that covered every wall. I squinted and saw what looked like a solitary figure staring at me. I wondered why the person was watching me and what the point of the whole thing was. I was just a broken, and useless former crook, wasn’t I? Why the hell were they spending so much time giving me therapy? Anyway, I flashed a middle finger at the figure hiding behind the glass.
Next came the hand-eye coordination drills, which thankfully weren’t as physical as I’d feared they might be. I sat on a chair, one hand literally tied behind my back, forced to snatch ball-bearings out of the air which were fired at me by what looked like an old pitching machine. Stryker seemed amazed at my abilities, but like I said, I always excelled at this kind of stuff. For whatever reason, the ball-bearings looked as big as beach balls to me, and several times I showed off, catching the small metal spheres between my thumb and forefinger.
By the time the drills were over, I could barely hold my head up.
“Every muscle in my body is toast,” I grunted.
Stryker dropped to his haunches before me. “That’s the point. Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
“Who said that?”
“It was either Hitler or Stalin; I can’t remember which,” Stryker answered with a sly smile.
“Yeah, well, you try getting down here and doing some of this shit, big boy,” I replied.
Stryker’s hand snapped out and grabbed my cheeks. His expression instantly changed, as if somebody had flipped an internal switch. His omnipresent smile was gone, replaced by something darker and a harsh light beaconed from his eyes. He squeezed my face so hard I thought his fingers were going to dig into my flesh. Then he smacked me in the mouth, opening the already-existing cut on my lip.
“Don’t ever talk back to me like that. Do you hear me?” he said.
I held his look. “I hear you.”
“Never forget who’s in charge, Mr. Deus.”
“Yeah, I know who’s in charge,” I replied. “A real jerkass.” Stryker smacked me again in the mouth, splitting my lip open wide, and knocking me out of the chair.
*
* *
My lip was red-smeared and pulpy, and my mouth tasted like I’d gargled with pennies as the bullet-faced goon deposited me back in my prison cell. Long gone was the tasty grub I’d eaten earlier in the day. On the floor was a metal tray with two scoops of what like pet food. I fought off the urge to barf and crawled up onto my cot and fell into a deep sleep.
The next day brought more of the same “therapy” sessions as did the days that followed. The weeks flashed by, and Stryker continued to ramp up the intensity. I was soon moving briskly around the room, both on my front arms and with the use of a wheelchair. The muscles in my forearms were long and ropy, and I was completing the hand-eye coordination drills fully blindfolded.
He did his best to outwit me, but I was simply better at reacting than Stryker was. It was as if I could read his mind, could anticipate exactly what he was going to do before he did it. As they used to say about certain sports stars, the game had slowed down for me.
Stryker continued to fire the ball bearings at me from different angles, but it didn’t matter. I could track the disturbance in the air as the bearings were shot which allowed me to sense their angles, even though I couldn’t see them.
When I wasn’t blindfolded, everything that happened was distorted, the ball bearings somehow seemingly illuminated by tracings of light that allowed me to pinpoint the precise spot to intercept them, mid-air. I’d had this happen to me throughout my life, the ability to see things in colored pathways, which I’d always thought of as a curse. The curse had turned into a blessing, and it annoyed the hell out of Stryker who grew impatient, angry, screaming at me. I constantly had to fight off the urge to smack talk the guy, realizing I’d only suffer more if I did. I continued to take whatever Stryker dished out, all the while watching the solitary figure behind the tinted glass who seemed to be present every day, observing me.
I soon lost track of time and began to wonder whether Stryker’s therapy sessions were building to some climax that I hadn’t been told about. Aside from sleep, I rarely if ever interacted with any of the other prisoners and still had no idea where they were keeping the scuds, the other prison personnel had mentioned when I first arrived.
“You’re getting lazy, Mr. Deus!” Stryker shouted to me while flinging the ball-bearings at ninety miles-per-hour.
“Because it’s boring,” I replied, snagging one of the bearings blindfolded with two fingers. I removed my blindfold and tossed the metal bead back at Stryker. “I’m done with this shit,” I said. “I want out.”
Stryker rose from the machine he’d used to fire the ball bearing at me. He powered the machine off, his gaze narrowing. “What did you just say?”
“I said I’m done with this Mickey Mouse bullshit, Stryker.”
Anger flashed in Stryker’s face. He stomped forward, tossing aside some of the exercise machines. There was pure malice in his eyes, his fist snapping out toward my chin when something truly remarkable happened.
I grabbed it.
I grabbed Stryker’s fist in my own hand and watched the veins on my forearm throbbing.
Stryker’s eyes enlarged, and then he tried to use his bulk to dislodge me.
But I was stronger now because of all the therapy, oh, Lord, was I stronger.
My triceps bulged as I muscled myself forward. Whether it was because of all that I’d endured over the years, or simply because Stryker had smacked me around one time too many, I went medieval on his ass. Hands out, I wrapped my arms around his waist like a boa-constrictor. Before he could react, I’d lurched up and thrown an elbow that caught him under the chin.
Stryker fell back, crashing to the ground. I powered myself up and vaulted on top of him, wailing away at his face. His nose was soon smeared red, and then the alarms began. Doors opened, and men shouted, but I just continued to pound away. Meaty hands soon latched around my neck, and then somebody stabbed what felt like a needle in my right bicep. My body went numb, and I collapsed as a large man strapped bracelets around my wrists and picked me up.
I was thrown over the big man’s shoulder and carried down a dark corridor and through a series of security doors that hissed open. The big man stopped, and even though my vision was hazy from whatever drug I’d been injected with, I could still see the black metal door at the end of the corridor. The one that was guarded by five heavily armed soldiers. Strange sounds echoed from the other side of the door.
Before I could ask what was happening, a buzzer sounded, and the black door slowly opened. The soldiers adopted defensive postures, aiming their weapons at the semi-darkness on the other side of the door. The big man carried me past the door and then chucked me roughly to the ground.
“You’re where you belong now, bitch,” the big man said.
I turned back and watched the man trudge through the door that closed behind him with a pneumatic hiss. Pivoting, I glanced in the other direction. Nothing was entirely clear, but there were forms visible … and cells. It was clear now that this was another section of the prison. A strange odor tanged the air, a scent that differed significantly from the other section of the prison, the one where I’d been kept. It was slightly sweet, like fruit that’s been left out in the sun to ripen and rot. The tiny hairs on my arms prickled. My fingernails carved divots in the palms of my hands as two forms staggered to their feet in the gloom and moved haltingly toward me.
One of the forms was short, the other tall.
My eyes slowly adjusted to the murk and that’s when I saw them.
Saw the zippered mouth of Carpe Kenyatta, and the angry face of Alpha Timbo who peered down at me. The lips on what passed for Timbo’s mouth parted in surprise, exposing his mini-fangs.
The big alien was very much alive and, from the look of things, royally pissed.
At that moment, I knew two things: I’d been tossed into the alien portion of the prison, and … I was in deep doo-doo.
8
Equanimity.
That’s a word I remember circling in the old dictionary my dad gave me. Basically, the word means mental calmness or composure, which is why it sprang to mind as I listened to the sound of alien tongues clucking. Kenyatta smiled and his arm swung hypnotically back and forth like a snake. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Well, well, well.”
“Do I know you?” I asked, trying to play the whole thing off.
Timbo roared in anger and Kenyatta translated. “The Master says to get up.”
“That’s gonna be a bit of a problem,” I replied, pointing at my legs.
“You stole from us,” Kenyatta said.
“That’s impossible. Thieves can’t steal from thieves. That’s the first thing you’re taught when you become a member of the crooks and pickpockets union. Duh.”
Kenyatta was thrown by this for a moment, and I made a move to stage a quick getaway. Then I remembered I couldn’t walk, which was going to be an issue. I crawled less than a foot before hands, Kenyatta’s elephant trunk-like arm, grabbed me. There was a sucker-like pad attached to what passed for his palm, and it suctioned onto the bare flesh near my ankle, tugging me back. I worked to fight it off, but the little jerk was surprisingly strong.
“This is all a huge misunderstanding!” I shouted, watching more of the aliens appear behind Kenyatta and Timbo. Many more, dozens, maybe hundreds of them. They were of all shapes, sizes, and colors, including a few that looked to be over ten feet tall.
Even though I was on the ground, I held up both hands. “Stop where you are!” Surprisingly they did. “If you let me go, I promise not to kick all of your asses!”
There was a moment of silence, and then Timbo surged toward me and before I could react, took me up in his thickly-muscled arms. He opened his mouth, and a blast of hot air that smelled of fire and rotten meat assaulted me.
“Don’t take this personally, but you really need to brush your teeth.”
The shriek that came next from Timbo, deep from the bottom of his belly, blew the hair back on my head and left a ring of what felt like
warm gelatin on my forehead. A guttural cluck followed, and Kenyatta grinned.
“The master says it was fortuitous that you came to us at this moment.”
“Why is that?”
“We haven’t eaten in days.”
I drew a breath. “Well, like I said, if you let me go, I won’t kick your asses, and as an extra bonus, I promise to go back through that metal door and grab us all some takeout. All you can eat. It’s on me, boys!”
Timbo clucked his tongue and smiled. “No, you do not understand,” the alien said softly in a guttural voice. “You are the meal.”
I stared at Timbo, and then I did the only thing there was left to do. I headbutted the sonofabitch. My forehead split what passed for Timbo’s nose. He squealed and stumbled back, dropping me. I slammed into the ground and flopped like a fish on the deck of a boat. Instinctively, I began rolling sideways, back up toward the metal door which suddenly flew open. I couldn’t believe my luck! Stabbing my hands out, I snake-crawled forward and heard a sound, like two wooden poles being thumped against the ground at the same time.
Looking up I saw a pair of metal legs that had made the sound and the man attached to them. God in Heaven, it was him. It was Vidmark, bearded, still handsome as a movie star, looking down at me. He had an oversized pistol in one hand that he aimed at me.
“Hey! Wait!” I shouted, raising my right hand.
Vidmark fired the pistol—
Directly over my head.
A ball of energy grazed my skull and slammed into Timbo and the other scuds who were nearly on me, knocking them back.
“Do you want to live?” Vidmark asked me.
“Yes, please.”
“Do you want to walk again?”
“More than anything,” I said, and that was the truth.
NEW WORLD DISORDER: MECH COMMAND BOOK 1 Page 5