Fox Wilde - Variant Exchange - A Punk Rock Spy Fiction Novel

Lena couldn’t take it anymore. The beatings, the bildungsbälle , the horrid wall, punishment loaf, the gas, her arms hurting, the long interrogations… she just couldn’t take it anymore. Synapses snapped, connections frayed, and tarantulas of pain and nerves danced gleefully down her sputtering spinal cord like drops of poisoned sweat as she finally gave up. What started as a tremble ended as a full-fledged tremor, sinking her to her knees uncontrollably.

She fell to the floor and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. “ Oh god…” she said softly as she quivered and shook, “ Oh fucking god, why…” She rolled herself up into a ball, making herself as small a target as she could for the kicks that were soon to follow. She didn’t care when they came—she hoped they would . Maybe if she were lucky a boot would find her throat, collapsing it instantly. Then she could die, and this horrible nightmare would finally end. Oh, how she just wanted to die. She begged God for it, “Please … just let it end … kill me please…”

Yet the kicks never came. Her interrogator only stood stoically above her, smoking the cigarette that she had been holding. He said nothing. He simply remained there, towering as if a judge, expressionless in his power.

“Young, Lena?” he asked, gently.

“y-y-yes S-s-s-sir…” she stuttered, through a mouth that wasn’t working quite right.

“What are you, young Lena?”

“A-a-a ch-ch-child… I’m a-a ch-ch-child, S-s-sir…”

“That’s not what I want to hear, Lena. Tell me what you are.”

“I’m a-a-a cri-cri-criminal… a cri-cri-criminal a cri-criminal… I’m a criminal.”

“Clang clang clang clang clang clang clang…”

Another round of pepper-balls. Another round of positions. Another round of clanging with the baton. Another night of fitful sleep. Another round of positions. Another round of ‘wellness’ exercises. Another round of giggling outside her door. None of it mattered anymore—Lena was completely broken. Half the instructions she didn’t even follow. It wasn’t that she refused to or didn’t care. She was simply too busy falling apart to really pay attention. When the motivational bildungsbälle began again in five-second bursts, she didn’t even try to defend herself. She simply lay there like a whipped dog, taking round after round, coughing up colors and crying silently. The guards on the other side had laughed uproariously at first, taking sadistic pleasure in her misery; but now, upset by her lack of response, they hollered at her—with anger that was quickly turning to rage. She knew the gas was soon to follow. She cared then—oh how Lena cared—yet she couldn’t bring herself to even roll over.

“ Achtung!” a voice yelled, and her cell was promptly opened.

Three large men, all in immaculately-pressed uniforms, charged in and grabbed her roughly. One took control of each arm and the remaining grabbed her legs. Then, the three of them began marching down the hallway with her slung between them like a sack of garbage. If Lena were of a mind to, she might have attempted to witness the route they took. She had gotten used to the convoluted nonsense-routes to her interrogation sessions; but here was her chance to finally see where the corridors actually led. In her unfortunate state, however, she couldn’t be bothered to care. She knew she was on her way to be tortured, interrogated, shot, or worse. Here, there were things worse than death. Lena was sure of that.

When they finally entered the interrogation room, the three guards dropped her unceremoniously on the floor like a rotten sack of meal. Her interrogator stood inside, and he looked very upset.

“Leave us!” he screamed at the three guards. Oddly, they scooted out of the room, almost fearfully.

“I… I… I’m…” Lena started, but he cut her off.

“Shut up, you fucking whore!” he menaced over her, spit flying about. “You fucking whore! We know what you were doing! We know about your shows… about your secret meetings! We know you have conspired against the State. Admit it! Admit it now or I swear to God I will make your life a testament to pain!”

Lena believed he would, but she had no idea what he was talking about. “Secret meetings!?” she thought to herself, “What secret meetings?!”

“That’s right!” he screamed again, “We know about your little resistance! Did you think we wouldn’t find out?! You and that boy, Hans Schmidt!”

“Oh my god,” Lena thought to herself. She really didn’t think about Hans anymore, but at the mention of his name, concern filled her. What had happened to him?! What had they done?

“Oh, make no mistake…” he screamed even louder, “We have him—we have all of your traitorous little friends. He’s still alive… for now. But if you don’t start talking right now, I’ll make sure he never sees another day! I’ll kill him right in front of you! I’ll bring him right in front of you and I’ll shoot him right in that precious face you love so much! The last you will ever see of him is a big, gaping hole filled with teeth and gore! Don’t think I won’t do it!”

“Hans is still alive?!” Lena thought to herself. For all the good it would do, her heart filled with relief and a small amount of joy knowing that he wasn’t dead.

“That’s right!” her interrogator menaced in an even more dire tone as he crouched down next to her. He was inches from her unprotected face, and the madness in his expression was plain to see. “He’s still alive, rotting in a black cell. He hasn’t left his cell since he arrived… since we tortured him, at least. He hasn’t seen a human face or heard a human voice… I’ve been told he screamed like a girl for few nights—and then he went silent. The guards slide his food tray in, but it comes out uneaten. To be honest with you, Lena, none of the guards really know if he’s alive. His cell reeks of feces, I’m told! Several of the guards have cast dice on whether or not he finally killed himself, or if he’s simply lost his mind. Personally, I think he’s just lost his mind… poor, mindless little Hans; muttering to himself, quivering like you, and crying for his wretched girlfriend!”

“That will be quite enough, Lieutenant.” an older male voice spoke from the back of the room.

Lena turned to see who the new voice belonged to. She was surprised to see an older man, perhaps in his late fifties to early sixties, rumpled and balding with gray hair. He immediately struck Lena as a man who slept long and soundly at night and awoke as early as he wished with a minimum of fuss. He wasn’t dressed like the other guards. He wore a slightly wrinkled suit with a slightly wrinkled tie. Everything about the man seemed… relaxed.

“She knows , Sir!” her interrogator practically whined.

“I’m sure she does, Lieutenant,” the man said reassuringly, “and we’ll get the information from her eventually. But for now, I think our young charge would do well with a good rest.”

“Yes, Sir.” the Lieutenant responded grudgingly—no doubt he was upset at having his plaything removed from him in such a matter. “So, now what?” he asked insolently. “We just stop interrogating her? She’s a criminal!”

“Of course she’s a criminal, Lieutenant. As I recall, she has already confessed and has showed contrition. No doubt she feels terrible about her crimes against the State. But she is also a child and couldn’t possibly have known the far-reaching extent of her actions.”

“She knew what she was doing, Sir!”

“I disagree, Lieutenant. As you’ve no doubt noticed over the last few weeks, young Lena is only a child. You’ve skillfully established and informed her of this fact, as well as made her come to see that she and her peers are both impressionable and ignorant. How could these youngsters possibly grasp the sheer scope and breadth of their actions?”