Jack Kilborn - Endurance

“Out. Now.”

“Please don’ hurt me.”

Felix hit him again, harder. John moaned and began to inchworm backwards out of the truck on his knees and chest. Felix grabbed the large man’s cuffed wrists and helped him off the tailgate, onto his feet.

The night had gotten colder, the cool breeze pinching Felix’s wounds. John’s face was glossy with sweat, reflecting the light from Felix’s bathroom window. Felix removed the bungee cords wrapped around John’s legs and led him to the back porch; a poured slab of concrete with two weathered resin chairs facing the woods. He tried the patio door.

Locked.

Felix squinted through the split in the curtains, saw Cameron lying on the made bed, watching TV. He knocked lightly, and whispered. “Cam, it’s me. Open up.”

Cam’s head jerked at the sound, and a moment later he sprang off the mattress and opened the door. The younger man was dressed for bed, in boxer shorts and a tee shirt, but he still wore those black leather gloves. Felix had never seen Cam take the gloves off, even in the sweltering West Virginia summer when temperatures peaked at a hundred and three.

“You got one,” Cam said, his eyes getting big when he noticed John. Cam’s voice was high and raspy, as if he’d never finished the last few weeks of puberty, even though he’d just turned twenty. “Christ, Felix. You’re covered with blood.”

“Get the rope,” Felix said.

Cam did as instructed, and Felix lead a docile John to a battered desk chair, which creaked under his weight as he sat down. When Cam brought the nylon clothesline, he secured John’s body and feet while Felix covered him with the gun.

“You don’ wanna do this,” John said.

Cam stepped away, looking startled.

“Cam...” Felix said. He knew Cam’s history, knew that he might not be able to handle what was about to happen. “Maybe you should wait in the—”

Cam’s hand shot out, slapping John across the face. It sounded like a firecracker going off in the small room.

“Where’s my sister, you son of a bitch!”

Cam raised his hand again, but Felix grabbed his arm, wincing at the pain in his injured fingers. He looked into Cam’s eyes, saw them crackling with fire.

This is a bad, bad idea.

“Easy, kid,” Felix said, trying to keep his voice even. “John wants to cooperate. Don’t you, John?”

John eyed the floor, saying nothing.

“Does he know where Maria is?” Cam caught Felix’s forearm and squeezed. He was strong for his slight build.

“Maybe.” Felix tugged his arm away. “I’m not sure.”

Cam grabbed John’s ears, forcing his head up. “Where is she? Where’s my sister?”

“You better let me go.” John looked close to crying again. “Y’all be in big trouble if’n you don’t let me go.”

Cam stared hard, and something flashed across his face.

Is that a smile?

“Can you count, you big, fat redneck?” Cam asked. “Because I’m going to count to ten. And if you don’t tell me where Maria is, I’m going to kill you.”

Felix felt like he swallowed a bucket of ice. He knew why Cam was in the hospital. Knew what Cam was accused of doing.

Accused of. Never proven.

Still, it was enough to get him committed.

“Cam,” Felix cleared his throat. “Let’s go in the other room, talk this over.”

Cam ignored him, walking around to the back of John’s chair. “I bet you’re so slow and dumb you count on your fingers, don’t you? Here, let me help you count.”

John’s lips began to tremble.

“Cam...” Felix said. This situation was spiraling way out of control.

“One,” Cam counted.

CRACK.

It sounded like a branch snapping. But it wasn’t wood. Felix knew that Cam had just broken one of John’s fingers.

John’s face turned bright red, and Felix saw the scream building up in his throat. He managed to grab a dirty sock from the floor and shove it into John’s open mouth a second after the howl began. The sound went on and on, and Felix had never heard anything so pitiable, so awful, in his entire life. It made him sick, all the way down to a cellular level. Like Felix’s entire body had become rotten, making him want to crawl out of his skin and go hide.

But Cam wasn’t finished.

“Two.”

Another snap. John thrashed his head back and forth, the tendons in his neck sticking out, his throat vibrating with muffled cries.

Felix’s stomach clenched like a fist. He stumbled into the bathroom, dropping the gun in the sink, vomit spewing up and spraying the toilet. He sunk to his knees and held the bowl, trembling. The steely resolve of a year-long search seeped out of Felix’s body, replaced by pain, fear, and regret over what was happening.

I have to stop this. Now.

But John’s a killer. He had something to do with Maria’s disappearance.

He’s also a human being.

A human being who tried to kill me.

So that means we can torture him?

He may still have Maria.

That last thought gave Felix the strength to stand up and return the bedroom, albeit on wobbly legs. John was thrashing back and forth, his muffled screams making the hair on Felix’s neck stand up. Cam hyperextended another one of the man’s fingers, twirling it around and around like he was stirring a cookie batter.

“Cam.” The spectacle before Felix was surreal.

“I got this, Felix.” Cam grinned at him. “Least I can do, since you busted me out of the loony bin.”

Cam grabbed another finger, and Felix yelled, “Enough!”

Cam’s head shot up, looking like a teenager scolded for bad grades.

“Back off,” Felix ordered. His voice was shaky, but he held Cam’s gaze until the younger man slunk away.

Felix glanced quickly at John’s hands—most of his fingers were stuck out at odd angles—and walked around to face him. John was bright red, his face wet with tears. Felix yanked the sock out of his mouth and was rewarded with a soul-wrenching moan.

“Am... am I bleedin’?” John said.

Felix swallowed. “Not yet. But if you don’t answer my questions, my partner is going to start cutting off your fingers. Do you understand?”

John nodded, his chin trembling. Felix leaned down over him.

“Tell me, John. Is Maria alive?”

John stared, but stayed quiet. Drool leaked out of the corner of his mouth. Felix had once jammed a finger catching a football, and it hurt like hell. To have five broken fingers, misshapen and manhandled, must have been unbearable.

“Answer me. Is Maria alive?”

“You... hurt me bad,” John cried.

Felix felt his stomach turning again. But he managed to keep it under control when he said, “Cam, go out to the truck and get this bastard’s hunting knife.”

Cam nodded and hurried off. Felix considered his prisoner. Maybe John didn’t want to talk, because he thought if he did, he’d be killed. Killed because he was no longer useful. Or killed in retribution for the things he’d done to Maria.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Felix said. He knew it sounded hollow. Lame. But the alternative was letting Cam start slicing off fingers; something Cam seemed disturbingly eager to do. This was a slippery slope, and unless Felix could convince John he’d live through this, the situation would get a lot messier.

Could I allow Cam to keep hurting John?

Felix closed his eyes. He saw Maria’s face. If John had something to do with her disappearance, Felix would let Cam roast the guy over hot coals in order to get answers. Felix could have a crisis of conscious after John talked.

If John talked.

“Got it,” Felix said, hurrying back in. “Man, this knife is wicked.”