Matthew Costello - Rage

That was her plan.

Was that how Cross came to be in charge of one of the Ark sites? Was that how the bastard got himself here? Who did him that favor, and did that bastard survive?

Because if he did, that was someone he would like to have some one-on-one time with.

The man who changed the future.

Or had Cross had his own network, planning this all along when the Ark Project became known to the upper levels of military brass?

Marshall didn’t know. Perhaps he never would. He just knew that if there was one twenty-first-century maniac that should not be running anything, it was Cross.

“Colonel Casey, have you explained to the captain what I will want to talk about?”

“Yes, General.”

Casey.

Marshall knew that name. That’s how Cross made this happen. Casey had been a key security advisor to President Campbell. He would have had tremendous pull with any of the Ark sites.

If he had been secretly allied to Cross, everything fell into place.

“Good.”

Cross stood up. He was dressed in a uniform similar to the Enforcers, save for insignia and medals. He walked closer to Marshall.

“You see, Captain, I know this can’t be a rushed process. You know so much. And I must be patient to learn it.”

Marshall thought of firing off something else to irritate Cross. But that would only trigger more punches and kicks, and he was sure there would be plenty of them without actually asking for more.

“So-we will begin today, and take our time. Everything you know, all the places, all the cells, all the people-everything. I will know it. It will be a great gift to the Authority.”

He turned away and walked back to his chair as if to sit down and watch a show on television.

“Of course, there is an easier way. You tell me everything… now. No pain. No agony. You could even get a position of leadership. You… would get to enjoy the benefits of being a part of the Authority. The Capital, as you could discover, is not without its rewards and charms. There’s food you haven’t seen in decades.” He laughed. “And women? Not those desert-worn types you find in the settlements. A different life here, Marshall. You should consider it.”

“I have.”

He felt the Enforcers on either side tense, ready to kick the wind out of him again.

“You can fucking keep it.”

“So. The good soldier to the end. In a world that doesn’t deserve one. Stupid decision.”

Cross sat down.

“Now, let’s begin. Tell me, who is in your cell?”

Marshall took a breath. He focused on the lights, the monitors with their images of the Capital fortress, the shiny metal floor, the nearby table with its… implements.

“Captain John Marshall, United States Army, serial number 9423382869.”

Cross waved a hand in the air.

It was time to begin.

Marshall was on his knees, the lights not so bright anymore.

He was dripping sweat and blood, making his vision blurry again, his eyes sting. His shirt had been ripped off, and now his back was a mesh of welts and cuts.

And yet the worst part had been the hesitation before each blow landed.

Then two of the Enforcers started playing a game with his head, punching at it like it was a boxing bag, first to one side-followed by screams at him to get up-and then another smash to the opposite side.

Over and over.

He lost count of the number of times Cross had signaled them to stop so he could repeat his question.

Then, getting no answer to that, other questions.

Where is your base?

Who are the other leaders?

What equipment have you gathered that may prove dangerous to us?

Then more lashes to the back, more blood, more savage punches to the head that sent Marshall twisting to the floor, curling in on himself, his face smacking down hard on the metal.

It went on and on and on…

“Pull him up. To his feet.”

Marshall could barely stand. His head throbbed from the blows, while his brain now dreaded more savage lashes to the back.

“All right. As I said, Marshall, I can be patient. Today was to show you just that. But tomorrow-Colonel, if you would-”

Casey walked over to the table and brought back a fistful of shiny metal objects.

“There you go, Captain. You see them? Each can have a different purpose. Some are narrow and sharp, others are broad and unfortunately dull. There are so many ways they can be used to produce pain. As you know, we learned some tricks from those we fought-back in the day. And here, now, we are no longer afraid to use them.”

Marshall tilted his head at the objects. Looking at what Casey held in his hand, like so many lethal lollipops, was nearly enough to make him groan.

Today had been nothing.

“I will give you twenty-four hours. To remember things. To recall. And,” he said, pointing at the tray of torture, “to think on what we have here for you. And know this-it doesn’t stop there. When your body gets-what would be the word- acclimatized to the pain of metal on skin, we will move on to other things. In the end, you will talk. You will beg to talk.”

Cross started to walk away. Marshall saw a door in the corner of the room open.

“Think on it, Captain. No need for it. No need for any of this.”

Cross, followed by Casey, disappeared from the room, and the Enforcers holding him up dragged him in the other direction.

And as they did, Marshall thought…

How long can I hold out?

More importantly: Did it matter?

Because he knew one thing: if the study of dictatorships and prison and torture told us anything, it was that sooner or later, God, everyone talks.

And with his feet dragging on the floor as they pulled him away, Marshall tried to find something in his mind that resembled hope.

For now, he found nothing.

“ Y ou wait here until Mr. Stiles is ready to see you.”

The man talking to Raine had a headset on and held a clipboard tightly, as though it contained the secrets of the universe.

Somehow, Raine doubted it.

The man spoke into the mic of the headset.

“Yes, yes, he’s here, Mr. Stiles. He looks…” The scrawny man looked at Raine. “He looks set. No, sir. I will.” Putting a hand over the mic, he said, “Mr. Stiles-”

“Is ready to see me?”

The man nodded.

“Lead on.”

The assistant led Raine into a room lit by the glow of TVs all showing the same thing: a frozen shot of the words MUTANT BASH. In front of all these screens, people sat at control desks.

Sally had already told Raine that there was only one network. This was it, and Stiles ran its most popular show…

Where people battled mutants in an arena each week for money and for their lives.

Raine took in all the faces, finally settling on one that was familiar-he recognized it from the billboards he had seen around town. Stiles sat behind one of the control desks, at a good vantage point for all the monitors. He tapped one of the people sitting at the dials and whispered something as Raine came closer.

Like he’s pointedly trying to act busy before he talks to me.

And what a guy.

Easily the fattest human Raine had met in this world. Layers of excess blubbery skin around his neck. And yet Stiles sat with his legs crossed as though he was on a throne and not a director’s chair.

Raine stood there, scrawny assistant with a clipboard by his side.

When Raine looked away, the assistant rolled his eyes and gave him a nod indicating that he should give his full attention to Mr. Stiles.

The things one has to do just to stay alive.

Though Sally said this wasn’t the wisest step in that direction. She had offered to set him up, get him a vehicle of some kind to escape to a settlement where they might not worry about newcomers.