Matthew Reilly - Scarecrow Returns

His head was bent low and he did not move at all—he could have been dead for all Schofield knew. It was hard to tell. Suspended from his cuffed wrists, Hartigan’s shoulders had dislocated some time ago.

Calderon caught Schofield looking at Hartigan. “It is a torture position known as strappado , or ‘reverse hanging.’ It has been used for hundreds of years, by the Medici family in Florence and the Nazis in their concentration camps, and also the North Vietnamese during the Vietnam War. It is still used today in Turkey—I know this for a fact, as I instructed their torturers in its correct use. Strappado causes excruciating pain, and if left for too long in this position, the subject will suffer first, permanent ligament damage, and second, dislocation of the shoulders, and eventually full loss of use of the arms.”

Calderon smiled. “I personally just like the look of it. The subject is at my complete mercy, with his hands pinned behind his back and his chest thrust outward so that his heart—his life force—is totally exposed.”

Schofield turned to face the other two prisoners and when he recognized them, his jaw dropped.

They were both suspended from a second forklift, one from each prong, also in the strappado position. Unlike Hartigan, however, their heads were unbowed, allowing Schofield to identify them easily.

Mother and Baba.

LIKE SCHOFIELD, their cold-weather outer garments had been removed—Baba hung from his swept-back wrists with his massive chest bare to the cold; it was hairy, muscled and huge. Beside him, Mother had been stripped to her trousers and gray sports bra.

Both bore bloody lips and noses, evidence of beatings already received. Schofield also noticed that a huge Army of Thieves man—it was Big Jesus—was standing nearby with a new acquisition slung across his back: Baba’s massive Kord machine gun.

At the loud cheer from the crowd of thugs, Mother snapped around and saw Schofield being wheeled out on the bed frame.

“Scarecrow!” she called.

Schofield couldn’t reply through his duct-taped mouth, but he locked eyes with her.

Mother yelled, “Stay strong, Boss! We got ’em just where we want ’em!”

Schofield’s bed frame was erected vertically alongside Ironbark’s. As he jolted to a halt, Schofield saw Ironbark look up at him—the totally exhausted gaze of a man who had been tortured to within an inch of his life. It seemed to take all of his energy to just raise his head. The smell of his burnt skin was sickening.

Calderon stood before Schofield and jerked his chin at Ironbark. “Specialist Barker here is a fair bit further along on his journey of pain than you are. But fear not, Captain, you will catch up with him soon.”

Calderon then turned to the Army of Thieves trooper manning the transformer connected to Ironbark’s bed frame. He was a Sudanese fellow with studded skin and bloodshot yellow eyes; and on his back, Schofield saw, still in its holster, he wore Schofield’s Maghook.

“Corporal Mobutu,” Calderon said, “I need that transformer to use on Captain Schofield. Splash Mr. Barker and kill him, please.”

The Sudanese torturer grabbed a nearby bucket of water and hurled its contents over Ironbark’s limp body.

Calderon explained to Schofield, “The trouble with electrocuting a human being, Captain, is that human skin, when dry, is actually quite resistant to electricity. The result is burning—you can ramp up the voltage as much as you want, but you only end up scorching the skin more. And the smell, God, it really is quite offensive. But if you wet the subject’s skin, the skin’s resistance drops and it becomes one hundred times more receptive to electricity. One moment, please. This is all for nothing if I don’t broadcast it.”

Calderon grabbed a microphone from nearby. It was connected to a communications console on the wall. Calderon pressed the TALK button and when he spoke again, his voice was magnified through every one of the many loudspeakers in the gasworks; indeed, through every loudspeaker on Dragon Island.

“ Zack Weinberg. Emma Dawson. I know you can hear me. ” Calderon’s voice blared. “ Please listen to this. It is the sound of one of your comrades-in-arms dying. ”

Calderon turned to his Sudanese assistant. “Mobutu, 10,000 volts, please.”

The Sudanese flicked a dial on the transformer and immediately the steel springs on Ironbark’s bed frame flashed with blue lightning.

Ironbark’s entire body shook violently as electricity coursed through him, his terrible shuddering sending droplets of water flying outward. His teeth clenched around the wooden bit in his mouth. He grunted and strained in absolute agony, the tendons of his neck bulging, before abruptly his groans became high-pitched screams.

Calderon held the microphone close to Ironbark’s mouth the whole time, broadcasting his horrific screams across the island.

Then Ironbark’s screams cut off and he went completely limp, even though the transformer was still switched on, its electrical charge still flowing through the bed frame.

Schofield was thunderstruck by the savagery of it.

Ironbark was dead, but this wasn’t over yet.

The crowd started chanting, “Fire! Fire!”

Calderon nodded and Ironbark’s dead body was wheeled away and tipped—still attached to the bed frame—off the edge of the balcony, where it fell a short distance before landing on the conveyor belt. The slow-moving belt then carried it away. The corpse on the bed frame disappeared for about ten seconds as it passed under the broad ramp from the train platform, only to reappear again at the lip of the furnace on the far side.

Ironbark and the bed frame then tipped into the furnace where they were swallowed by the flames and the crowd of Thieves cheered with macabre, crazed delight.

In a dark corner of Dragon Island, Zack and Emma heard it all over a nearby loudspeaker.

They looked at each other in horror.

“Oh my God . . .” Emma whispered. “Oh my God . . .”

In the gasworks, Calderon stepped over to the figure of Jeff Hartigan, suspended strappado-style from the forklift.

He slapped Hartigan’s face and the executive stirred, groaning. He was alive.

Calderon turned theatrically to the crowd. “What do you say? Rat time?”

The crowd of Thieves roared with delight.

“Mobutu,” Calderon said. “Bring in the rats.”

MOBUTU DISAPPEARED into a side room, returning a few moments later with a large wire-framed crate inside of which were six rats.

Schofield’s eyes went wide.

They were of various sizes, from small and scurrying to fat and huge. They all had black furry backs, long hairless tails and frightening buck teeth. They snapped at one another with considerable viciousness.

Calderon said, “You know, Captain, one can’t help but be impressed by vermin. Rats, cockroaches, they’re so resilient . They will outlast us, that’s for sure. These rats, for instance, have survived on this island far longer than their old Soviet masters did. Consider this a demonstration for your benefit.”

Calderon jerked his chin at Hartigan. “Put a box on him.”

Mobutu obliged. Climbing a stepladder, he placed a large wooden box over Hartigan’s bowed head. The box had solid wooden walls, save for a round hole cut into its base, which was designed to accommodate the victim’s neck. Once the box was in place over Hartigan’s head, Mobutu stuffed some rags around the edge of this hole, sealing the gap between the box and the skin of his neck. Hartigan now looked like the Man in the Iron Mask.