Russell Andrews - Midas

When he could speak, he said, “Just tell me what the hell you want from me.”

Neither man answered. They glanced at each other, the man with the pistol nodded, then they both spun on their heels and left the room. Justin could hear the door bolt behind them.

Sprawled on the floor, he fought back the strong feeling of panic that was rising from his stomach like the bitter taste of bile. He sat there for perhaps another hour, but it was getting harder and harder for him to count off the minutes in his head. All he really knew was that at some point his eyes began to close again, and he was once more overcome by exhaustion.

He could not have been asleep for more than thirty seconds before the door burst open again. Justin didn’t need to be hit, he awakened at the sound of the two men thundering through the door and instinctively curled into a protective position to help shield the blows he was certain would follow. But he felt nothing. There was just silence. When he slowly turned his head, the same two men were standing above him. One of them had a bucket, and as soon as Justin moved, the soldier dumped its contents-ice-cold water-on top of his head, drenching him.

Both men turned with military precision and headed for the door. Not a word had been spoken. Justin hurtled himself into the air and lunged for one of them, managing to grab him around his knees. He was able to do no more damage than slow the soldier down for one moment, because the other man was on him like a flash. The rifle butt crashed into the side of Justin’s head, then a thick, heavy boot thudded into his side, and Justin lost his hold. He slid helplessly to the dirt floor and made no further attempt to move until the two men had marched out the door.

Justin lay on the dirt, wet and cold and aching and remembering how quickly strength can disappear. When Alicia died, so did his foundation. Faith and hope and optimism and joy all deserted him. He had thought he was not going to be able to go on, but it turned out he was left with something at his core that helped him survive. It took him years to understand that what was there was a certain toughness, a stubbornness, a meanness really, that wouldn’t let him give in to the agony that had become his life. To the unpleasant thing that, as he saw it, had become life itself. He had felt his strength fade then, and he remembered the feeling when he knew it was back. It was the moment he knew he was not going to join his wife and daughter in whatever world they’d gone to. Now, confined in the sweaty, foul-smelling cell, he felt that strength fading again, replaced by fear and uncertainty. But as he shivered, he thought, No, no, I won’t let it go that fast; this time they can’t take my life so quickly. So he shook off his exhaustion and the aches and pains and he climbed to his feet and stood at the door and, breathing heavily, just stared straight ahead, in case, somehow, they could see him, showing them that they had done their best and that he could take it.

They were not going to take his strength away.

Others had tried. The world had tried. No one had succeeded yet. And neither would they.

Ten days later, Justin wasn’t so sure.

That’s how long the torture had gone on. He’d had no sleep. It was the same routine: anytime his eyes closed, two men would jump into the cell. He’d be kicked or slapped or beaten. Ice water would be thrown on him. Sometimes there were electric shocks. Justin couldn’t tell exactly how they were being administered. There was some kind of box, he could feel clamps on his arms or on his feet, one time something clamped over his head. His body twitched and quivered when the waves swept through him. Once the shock was so bad, he could feel himself jerk and flop upwards off the ground and into the air. Once he smelled something burning and realized it was his flesh.

Twice a day someone would come in to feed him. Never a real meal. Some bread. A piece of ham or some indeterminate piece of meat. And one small paper cup of water.

Once, one of the men in fatigues spit in the cup before handing it to Justin. Justin drank it anyway.

There was no toilet in the room. Justin picked out a corner closest to the door to shit and piss in. He had no way to clean himself off. At the beginning, he felt some revulsion and shame at his uncleanliness. But at some point, neither the smell nor the self-disgust nor the helplessness bothered him.

For several days, he tried to resist. He forced himself to do sit-ups and push-ups and walk around the tiny room. But as the beatings went on and as his hunger grew and as he began to be dehydrated, he lost any desire to resist. He just wanted to tell them whatever they wanted to know. Anything they wanted to know.

Only no one seemed to want to know anything.

Justin was not frightened by the isolation or even, strangely enough, the beatings. What was beginning to terrify him was the lack of boundaries, the fact that there seemed to be no limit to the torture. No one had spoken to him, no one had asked him a question, no one seemed remotely interested in ending the process. It was the endlessness that was getting to him. The fact that he was beginning to think it might never end.

It was the endlessness that was taking his strength away.

At one point-he didn’t know if it was day or night; with no sleep, it made no difference anyway-two soldiers entered. He’d seen one of them before but not the other. One of them had a thick piece of rope. In front of Justin the soldier tied one end into a noose and, using a stepladder he’d brought into the room, attached it to a rusty metal hook that had long ago been driven into the wall.

The second soldier looped the noose around Justin’s neck and led him up the ladder. The noose pulled taut-and then the first soldier kicked the ladder out from under Justin’s feet. He felt the rope tighten and he thought he was dead, really dead, but the rope broke and Justin tumbled to the ground, more or less unhurt, the noose still tight around his neck. Still, his captors said nothing. When the two men left the room, Justin removed the noose, felt the rope at the point where it had fallen apart, and realized it had been cut. Their intention had not been to hang him. It had been to terrify him.

It had worked.

Justin cared deeply about staying alive now. He didn’t know if he could but he suddenly had a deep and desperate thirst for life. He wanted-no, needed-to find out who was doing this to him. Find out who it was, find out where they were, and stay alive until he could kill them.

Holding the rope strands, he smiled through cracked lips. Life suddenly seemed good again. He had a reason to live.

They hadn’t taken his strength yet.

Some time after the mock hanging-Justin had no idea when; it could have been hours, it could have been days-another man in fatigues came through the door and into Justin’s cell. It was the first time someone had come in alone. Justin waited for the backup but no one else came. Just this one guy. His light brown hair was slightly longer than the others, not a buzz cut. His skin wasn’t as tan as most of the other men who’d come in. His clothes seemed crisper, as if they were newer or had been recently starched.

Justin was sprawled on the floor and made no attempt to stand. The man had his back to the wall with the door and he leaned casually against it. Watching him, Justin realized he was going to hear the first words he’d heard since he’d been there. This soldier wasn’t just a thug. Justin made a silent bet with himself that this was an officer. And that this was his interrogator.

“The explosion at Harper’s Restaurant,” the soldier said. His voice was calm. Whatever anger lurked behind them wasn’t detectable. Nor was it visible in his eyes, which were slate gray and as blank as eyes could be. “Tell me what happened.”