Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

A lone tear streaked down Katy’s cheek; otherwise, she was composed. So much so that she followed Dr. Lee out of Garin’s room, ostensibly to go to the hospital chapel, and when Dr. Lee deposited Garin’s exam results at the vacant nurses’ station and proceeded on his rounds, Katy retrieved the results and placed them in her purse. Then she quickly checked the station’s desktop computer to confirm that the results hadn’t yet been entered into the system. All record of Garin’s condition was wiped from the face of the Earth.

Several months later, their grandfather, Nikolai Garin, arrived from Europe to care for them. With his death a few years back, Katy and Dr. Lee were the only ones who knew of Garin’s condition. With passage of time and thousands of exams, Dr. Lee, if he was still alive, had probably long since forgotten.

Katy insisted Garin treat the heart anomaly as liberating. Knowing that he had only half the time he’d expected forced him to live life on fast-forward, compress eighty years of living into, at most, forty. So he held absolutely nothing back. He never paced himself. Although he wasn’t irresponsible and avoided jeopardizing the safety of others, he took risks, confronted dangers, and overcame hazards that would cause others to shrink, flinch, and cower. He felt… invincible.

In some ways, he was tantamount to dead. The dead feel no pain; pain is irrelevant. The dead have no fear; fear is irrelevant.

The same is true for the doomed. Theoretically.

Garin wasn’t dead yet.

The gash from the Butcher’s mouth to his ear was the first thing that came into focus. Within seconds everything else did as well. He was back in the present.

Garin felt a sharp pain from his right ear to the sinus cavity under his right eye. It was the pain that had caused him to lose consciousness, but also roused him awake.

“You were out only a few minutes,” the Butcher informed him. “And you did not scream. That will change.”

Garin blinked several times and shook his head. His right cheek was wet and warm. Blood trickling from his ear.

“Your body’s defense mechanisms are quite good,” the Butcher continued. “Many subjects remain unconscious far longer. A few suffer heart failure. Your heart must be quite strong. But we’re just getting started.”

Garin realized he couldn’t hear out of his right ear. He opened and closed his mouth and worked his jaw as if he had swimmer’s ear. The sensation of pain changed from a sharpness to a dull ache.

The Butcher brought the needle to within inches of Garin’s right eye. The act caused both of Garin’s eyes to water.

“Tears from the indomitable Garin. I have caused the intrepid warrior to cry.”

“Tears of joy, for your demise.”

“Your continued bravado is, I freely admit, unusual. Past subjects have evacuated their bladders by this point, especially upon seeing the needle directed at an eye. The reaction is primal; the piercing of an eye is far more frightening than that of an ear.”

“Do both,” Garin pled. “It’ll be a relief not to see your face any longer.”

The Butcher tilted his head slightly, as an entomologist might upon observing a newly discovered insect species. The art of torture depended in large part on the ability to instill fear and dread in the subject. The Butcher was a master at choreographing the various steps of the process to bring such fear and dread to a crescendo. But Garin refused to dance.

“I do not take requests, Garin.” The Butcher withdrew the needle, placed it on the metal table, and fired up the propane torch.

“Two thousand degrees, Garin,” the Butcher said, adjusting the flow valve. “That is Celsius. Three thousand six hundred Fahrenheit. Enough to quickly cut through the meat of the thigh to the femur in a few seconds. Done correctly, there is little bleeding, as the heat cauterizes the wound. The emphasis is on ‘correctly’; otherwise, there may be a mess.”

The Butcher looked from the flame back to Garin’s face. The unsettling look persisted.

“A more useful approach, however, is to apply the flame to an area that has comparatively little muscle or fat: The face, hands, and feet are ideal. Pain impulses normally travel at a slower rate than other nerve signals, usually no more than two to three feet per second. But the impulses seem to be conveyed much more quickly in these areas. And felt more acutely.”

“Less talking, more doing,” Garin said. “Otherwise you’ll miss the big show.”

“Although you have no idea what you are talking about, you have stumbled onto good counsel. The event is scheduled soon and I should be on my way shortly.”

“Bor is central to the event,” Garin said.

“This only confirms you know nothing of the event. The event consists of two stages and a backup. Bor is central to the backup.”

“Thank you for the information. It’ll come in handy.”

The Butcher nodded. “In hell, perhaps. Bor insisted you be killed before the first stage was initiated. I am told he conveyed this insistence to Mikhailov himself.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You have a right to be, Garin. One person cannot stop the plan, yet Bor is sufficiently concerned that he made your elimination a prerequisite.”

“Tell me about it so I have a sporting chance of stopping it.”

“You may trust me, Garin. Since you are a dead man, I would tell you if I knew. But they do not entrust details to someone like me. I know little, other than you will be paralyzed.”

“Then, what do you know?”

“The first stage only.”

“What does it entail?”

“Again, I know little of it.”

“As you said, I’m a dead man. Grant me my dying wish. Like a cigarette before a firing squad.”

“The first stage consists of suicide bombers.”

“Russia doesn’t use suicide bombers.”

“Russia does not use Russian suicide bombers, yes. As a means to an end, however, Russia will use suicide bombers who believe they are striking against the West on behalf of ISIS.”

“Very cynical.”

“Not really. The suicide bombers, with our assistance, are getting exactly what they want. It just happens to serve Russian interests also.”

“Marginally clever. How many suicide bombers?”

“I do not know.”

“When will they set off their bombs?”

“I do not know that either. Very soon.”

“Where will they set off the bombs?”

“Again—”

“You don’t know much, do you?”

“I know that it is a misdirection, to make you think the threat has passed, and to relax your guard.”

“Then the real event, so to speak, occurs.”

The Butcher nodded. “That is my understanding.”

“And Bor’s part of a backup plan.”

“Nikolai Garin surely taught you that Russians play chess…”

“Yes.”

“You are not even competent at checkers, Garin.”

“What’s the purpose? The endgame?”

“I do not know.”

“Well, you’re no help.” Garin nodded toward the table where the Butcher had placed the torch. “Your torch is burning. Do your thing.”

“Before I resume, it is your turn. Tell me what you know about the event.”

“What you’ve just told me is the sum total of what I know about the event. May I offer an opinion, though?”

“What is that, Garin?”

“It’s going to fail.”

“Let us resume.” The Butcher picked up the parabolic razor from the table and displayed it to Garin. “This is used to peel the skin. There is some disagreement over its most effective manner of use. My preference is to use it in tandem with the torch. An incision is made across the top of the hand at the knuckles. Because your wrists are secured to the armrest, however, in this instance, we will begin at the forearm. The skin is pulled back a few centimeters toward the elbow and beyond. Then the flame is used to cauterize the wound. The process is repeated until death. If you had any useful information to impart, there would be a pause after each cauterization to interrogate. Since you have no information, this will go rather quickly.”