The apartment was a small studio. The room provided enough space for the full-sized mattress laying on the bare floor, and a sitting area that would look spacious if the only furniture were a couch and chair. A cheap row of cabinets hung above the sink in what was barely a kitchen. Mason thought the average Iraqi family would consider a place like this a mansion. Collateral damage from the initial bombings on Bagdad, and refugee migration, had residential living quarters going for a premium.
“I still don’t like it,” Webb said.
Sanderson huffed out bad air and shook his head. “Webb, did anyone ever tell you those blue eyes of your sparkle like diamonds in the deep ocean?”
“What?”
“I bet you got a pretty mouth hidden under that burqa.”
“Sanderson, shut the fuck up!”
“No, you shut the fuck up. You need to focus on something else other than being scared of your shadow. Get your mind on the mission. We come. We kill. We leave. If you lose focus, you’re going to get yourself killed. Or worse, you might get me killed. I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan on dying out here.”
“Take a breather, both of you,” Mason said.
Webb turned and offered the flared end of the launcher; Mason inserted the grenade securely into place.
“We could be here for the next ten minutes or ten hours. Since the bathroom is down the hall, I’m going to open the latrine right here. I’ve got to piss so bad I can taste it.” Mason turned and walked over to a wall that had a short stack of newspapers scattered about. He glanced down, wondering if there might be something worth reading, then realized his Arabic was more than just a little rusty. He rolled the burqa high enough to find the zipper on his pants and fished for his manhood. Just as it hung out in open air, and he began to relieve himself, Webb whispered with surprise.
“Hey, a light just came on in the room.”
“Fucking great. I can’t stop pissing now. Do you see anyone?”
“No one yet, just—”
The door to the apartment burst open with a thunderous crash. Mason spun his head around and saw a boot level with the door lock hanging in the air. A small round object then bounced across the floor, metal clanking against stone.
“Jesus Christ! Get down!” he cried, but there was nowhere to seek cover.
He saw a bright flash. A shockwave grabbed his consciousness and shoved it into a deep abyss. The world went dark.
* * *
A tornado of thoughts weaved in a hodgepodge of unrelated images. A light in Mason’s mind glowed, and an assaultive, aromatic air entered his nostrils screaming for him to awake.
His vision, blurred from the hold of unconsciousness, cleared as he blinked and struggled to assess the situation. A few feet away stood an unwashed man, unmistakably dressed in enemy garb. He held a crushed ampoule in his hand.
Mason found himself breathing rapidly through his nose. A piece of cloth had been stuffed into his mouth and his lips sealed with tape. The taste of mold and sour cheese from the rag trickled down his throat. Don’t throw up—don’t throw up, he commanded his body, following with a short prayer. A dull pain throbbed within his head.
“Good. The last one is awake now.”
Mason turned his head toward the voice and saw Webb and Sanderson bound in chairs. Like him, both were gagged. The muscles in his arms sprung to action, only to be thwarted by the abrasive cords that burned into his wrists, as he fought the restraints. His legs were similarly held captive. His bare feet scratched into the filth on the sandy, stone floor.
The man who spoke wore a long sleeved dishdashah and stood a few feet from Webb. Mason noticed the sharp Persian features of the man wearing traditional Iraqi attire. To his left, three desert rats wearing tattered Iraqi Regular Army combat uniforms, waited at the ready with Kalashnikovs hanging from neck straps. “The eyes betray you, Americans. You struggle against your bonds as if you think that if you were free, you could somehow escape. But your eyes show the fear of what you know is to come,” the Persian said.
Mason racked his brain to remember if he’d seen this man’s face in the INTEL reports. It was distinctive enough with a scar tracing its way from his right eye down to the corner of his mouth. The man had long, straight black hair, and was clean-shaven. Mason couldn’t remember any photos of a rebel leader without facial hair of some sort. That profile would have stood out.
Webb turned his head toward Sanderson, then craned his head over to meet Mason’s gaze. Sweat trickled down Webb’s cheek, and his face flushed red with white blotches.
“You see? Even this one can sense what is about to happen.” Scarface looked over to the soldier on his immediate left. His eyes narrowed, and he quickly nodded.
The soldier stepped forward and jerked the tape from Webb’s mouth. Webb’s skin clung tightly, refusing to let go. Beard stubble and a piece of skin from his lower lip remained on the adhesive side. Once the rag was out of his mouth, Webb attempted to dry spit the taste away.
“You bastards need to go ahead and kill me now. I ain’t telling you shit,” Webb rasped.
Scarface raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, curious. He turned to one of the soldiers behind him and gave a quick nod.
The soldier took a step back, raised his rifle, and pulled the trigger with no hesitation.
The shot cracked loudly in the small room. Webb’s skull peeled open from the front, blowing the right half of the scalp off, and leaving the other half attached and hanging to the side. Brain matter splattered on the back wall.
Sanderson and Mason both jumped in their seats and redoubled their efforts to pull loose from the bonds.
“See, Americans? I am a compassionate man. I granted this man his final wish.”
Muffled curses from the Americans slowly curled a smile on Scarface’s lips.
“However, there are limits to my compassion. You two will not be as fortunate.” Scarface paced back and forth in front of the two Americans, his arms folded behind his back. “I am going to begin your torture now. You will have twenty-four hours to contemplate all the methods my people perfected over the centuries to extract information from the enemy. Dwell long and hard, dogs. There is no way out of your situation better than a quick death. Such a reward can only be earned by giving me information that I find useful.”
Scarface stepped to the door, stopped, and turned his head. “It would be wise not to disappoint me. You will find that I am a very, very, patient interrogator.”
Scarface left the room, and the four soldiers followed.
Pungent fecal odor drifted through the air as Webb’s muscles relaxed in death.
***
Mason’s mind drifted in and out of the present, delirious from dehydration and the oven-like heat in the room. He spent most of the last twenty-four hours communicating with Sanderson using sign language and eye movements. There was little to say, other than contemplating the chances of a rescue and encouraging each other to stay strong until the end.
The rage he felt after Webb’s murder sapped a good portion of his energy reserves. He imagined ripping free of his bonds, grabbing a Kalashnikov from a soldier, and beating the enemy’s head with the butt until his skull cracked open. He would then shoot the other soldiers, except Scarface. A bullet to the head couldn’t begin to even the score for what that monster had coming to him. Mason saw himself toss the gun aside, and then bound over to the Persian in three quick strides, his arm flying back like a baseball pitcher winding up for the game-ending fastball. His fist shooting forward and smashing Scarface’s nose with the force of a cannon ball. He’d hold the Persian by the collar and simply pound his face into oblivion. Again and again, his knuckles would mash soft cartilage and crush bone. All the while, savoring Scarface’s screams for mercy, but there would be none. Not now, not ever. Mason wished he had the power to turn the whole Middle East into a sea of radioactive glass. If he could make a deal with Satan, he’d sell his soul for just one nuclear bomb to drop.
; Webb sat in the chair with what remained of his head tilted toward Mason. His one eye gazed into nothingness, but to Mason, it was saying, See, I told you something wasn’t right.
Webb’s body shifted throughout the hours, expelling gas, and tightening with rigor mortis. The dry heat accelerated the body’s decay. Mason’s nose stung from each breath as the taste of death settled in the back of his throat.
The door opened abruptly, and three armed soldiers led the way in front of Scarface. One carried a brown sack. The contents in the sack writhed with life.
The soldiers lined up against the wall at attention. Scarface stopped in front of Mason and Sanderson, holding bottles of water by his chest. His eyes scanned the prisoners, and his expression seemed to change from indifference to delight. “It is time to give me what I want. I will be a generous host and give you something you want first, but then you will owe me the same favor.”
A quick nod from Scarface and two soldiers left rank and slowly peeled the tape from the Americans’ mouths. Mason pushed the rag out with his tongue and spat, while Sanderson dry heaved.
“Here, drink this. It will ease the words from your throat.” Scarface uncapped a bottle of water and pushed it to Sanderson’s lips.
Sanderson hesitated for a second, but finally relented and opened his mouth. Scarface lifted the bottle and poured until Sanderson coughed. Water ran down his chin and onto his sweat-soaked shirt. After Sanderson cleared his throat, Scarface gave him the rest. Sanderson uttered a small sigh of relief, and relaxed in his chair.
Scarface turned to Mason with a freshly opened bottle. “Drink. No need to die with a dry mouth.”
“I’ll drink it. It will help when I break out of this chair and rip you apart.” Mason accepted the bottle to his lips and drank until the last drop fell. His laser stare never left the eyes of Scarface.
“Americans watch too many movies. This is not a movie, and you are not Bruce Willis. There will be no grand finales where the hero gets rescued in the end. Ask your fallen friend there what happens when you play the hero. Real life paints a different picture than your movies do.”
As Scarface backed away, a soldier stepped up with a rag and a roll of duct tape.
“Fuck you.” Mason tried to kill the soldier with his hate-filled eyes. As the rag moved toward him, he twisted his head away. A hand came from behind across his forehead and another clamped his nostrils shut. He held his breath as long as he could, but was forced to surrender. His mouth opened. The rag went in as he took a breath and it was quickly taped in place.
The soldiers left Mason grunting in protest and returned to the wall.
Sanderson remained silent through all this, but now began to fidget in his chair as the attention turned his way.
Scarface cracked his knuckles. “The Rangers have been raiding villages targeting Shia Muslims. You Americans preach peace, but practice destruction of innocents. You prove yourself dogs and sons of Satan. I need you to give me the time and location of the next raid. It is soon, and that much I know. A quicker answer will be rewarded with a swift, painless death.”
“Hector Randle Sanderson. 437-20-7124.” Sanderson licked his lips. “That’s all you’re ever gonna get out of me.”
“The brave words always come in the beginning. In the end, when you tell me all that you know, you will think yourself a fool for not speaking sooner. Tell me, Hector Randle Sanderson, can you guess what is in the bag?” Scarface’s hand drifted over and presented it as if the squirming burlap was a game show prize.
Sanderson’s gaze darted over and locked on the sack. Mason heard his friend’s breathing quicken.
“How many desert black snakes would you guess can be shoved into a man’s stomach?”
The bag continued to writhe. Sanderson remained silent, though his eyes widened.
“I believe Saddam’s record was eight. I have brought twelve. Are you going to help me beat that record, or will you give me the information now?”
A gloved hand from a soldier went into the bag and pulled out a two-foot long reptile. The snake wrapped its body around his arm and tasted the air with its pale-red tongue.
A new soldier entered the room and whispered something in Arabic in Scarface’s ear. Scarface nodded and raised his hand. “I have been given some news that now requires haste in my objective. Pity. I was so looking forward to spending some quality time with my American guests.” He reached in a pocket, pulled out a syringe, and removed the plastic protector from the needle. “The modern ways can be quite productive also.”
Sanderson pulled hard against his arm restraints, his veins swelled inopportunely. “Nothing you can do will force me to talk.” His voice faded. Sweat rolled off his forehead like a waterfall.
The needle entered at the forearm, and Scarface injected the synthetic venom. Sanderson screamed indecipherable curses until the drug rendered his mind into dough. His eyes went wide, and a thin trail of drool slowly seeped from the corner of his mouth.
When Sanderson’s breathing became shallow, Scarface produced a small knife from his pocket. He explored Sanderson’s forearm with his fingertips until stopping near the elbow. “Ah, here it is.” The tip of the knife stopped and rested against the skin. “The ulna nerve goes straight to the brain. Knock, knock.” He pushed in the blade until Sanderson’s body stiffened as if hit with a surge of electricity. Sanderson screamed beyond the range of his voice.
Scarface toyed with the nerve for a few seconds and pulled the blade away. “Tell me when the convoy leaves for the raid. You must tell me. It is your duty as an American soldier. I must know the date. I must know the place. It’s the only way I can save American lives.” The blade went to the nerve again. Sanderson shuddered throughout the shrieks.
The cuts in Mason’s arms that had started to heal from earlier struggles bled freely now, as he fought against the bonds. His chair, like the others, was bolted firmly to the floor. Nothing he tried brought him an inch closer to freedom. He knew he was going to die. He just wanted to make sure to bring a few of these accursed terrorist with him.
“We need your help, Sergeant. Americans will die without your help. The convoy. The date. I need it now.” Scarface spoke in a low, pleading tone.
Mason wondered how Scarface knew Sanderson was a Sergeant. Rank was not displayed on their uniforms. Was it a guess that happened to be correct, or did he have information that told him? This particular mind game that Scarface played was unexpected.
“Americans . . . are in trouble?” Sanderson said.
“Yes, and they need your help. They need you to tell me the date and the place the convoy is headed. I must go and help them, or they will all die.”
“Fifteen . . .”
Scarface waited, and then repeated the word. “Fifteen?”
“Night raid . . . like the others.”
“The convoy leaves on the fifteenth?”
“Yes, the fifteenth.”
“Where?”
“Khan . . . Khan Bani Sad . . .”
Scarface beamed in victory. He looked down at Mason, who thrashed even harder in his chair. “I will take your reaction as confirmation the information is accurate. We’ll lay the traps tonight to catch the mice tomorrow.” With a short laugh, he headed toward the door and pointed at one of the soldiers standing by the wall.
The soldier’s rifle went to his shoulder. The loud report from a single shot signaled the end of Sanderson’s life.
The insurgents left the room. Mason now had two sets of vacant eyes focused on him, reminding him of his failure.
***
A bucket of foul smelling water snapped Mason from his delirium and back into the nightmare. No sooner had his eyes opened when the grimy fingers of a soldier pulled the tape off his mouth and removed the rag.
Mason’s chin fell to his chest as he tried to scrape bits of debris off his tongue with his front teeth and spit them out. The soldier left, and the hem of the white dishdashah-clad Scarface took his place.
&nbs
p; There was little to no fight left in Mason. Was that what imminent death does to a person? Given the time, is death more of a process than a single event? Does death slowly work from the peripheral, and all the things that give life its vibrancy slowly dull, until the person was simply more dead than alive? At that moment, Mason felt more dead than alive, and was craving the blissful peace he knew death would bring.
He raised his head to meet the victorious stare of Scarface, who peeled back his lips to show his canine teeth like a threatening wolf. Mason’s body vibrated with rage, there was still work to be done.
Scarface held a nylon-fiber nightstick in his right hand by the tee-handle and slowly spun it around. “Save your hate. It is you who should be begging me for forgiveness. Have I invaded your country?” He stopped turning the nightstick and held the handle like the butt of a pistol. “If you Americans would have minded your own business, you would be home now. Doing what Americans love to do best. Drinking beer and eating disgusting foods that violate God’s laws. Your women are in perpetual heat and breed like dogs. You sit in front of the television and waste hours while you ignore the poor, starving people in your community. Instead, you come here and attempt to enslave us in your bonds.” He stamped his foot to the floor. “Beg me for forgiveness. Beg Allah for forgiveness. I will kill you swiftly if you do so.”
A soldier stepped into view at the side of Scarface and shined a bright light in Mason’s face. The light emanated from a handheld video recorder.
“Time is no longer of the essence. The information your sergeant gave us was our only concern.” Scarface slapped the end of the nightstick against the palm of his left hand. “Last night, we were able to mine the path the convoy will take. There is only one road into Khan Bani Sad that can accommodate such large vehicles.” A smile broadened across his lips. “It is soon to be night again. We will bring death and destruction to the invaders unlike anything we have done before.”
“Pig vomit . . . pig shit . . .” Mason’s words fell weakly to the floor.
“As I said, you should save your strength to beg for forgiveness.” The smile left Scarface’s lips, replaced by a snarl. In one quick motion, he brought the nightstick across Mason’s left shin. There was a dull thud followed by a bright snap.
Rancid: A Zombie Novel Page 22