Matthew Reilly - Scarecrow Returns

There was also a hinged panel on the top side of the box—and when Schofield saw Mobutu open this panel and pick up a particularly large rat by the tail with his spare hand and hold it above the opening, every ounce of blood in his veins turned to ice.

“Oh, Lord, no . . .” he breathed.

Calderon saw this. “I imagine a man as learned as you, Captain, is familiar with Orwell’s beautiful novel 1984 . In it, a similar form of rat torture is used on the protagonist, Winston Smith. But there the rat torture is only employed as a threat to break Smith’s will; it is not actually used . Know this about me, Captain: I do not bother with threats. Mobutu, do it.”

Mobutu dropped the rat into the box, and then quickly added a second one, a smaller one, before he shut the upper panel.

As he did this, Calderon raised his microphone again: “Zack. Emma. You remember your camp-mate, Mr. Jeffrey Hartigan. This is him, being eaten alive by rats.”

Until that instant, Jeff Hartigan’s body had been practically motionless as it hung suspended from the forklift’s prong. But then with alarming suddenness, Hartigan started screaming like a madman. His legs kicked frantically, lashing and thrashing, his arms strained at their bonds, but there was no escape.

Schofield couldn’t see what was happening inside the wooden box covering Hartigan’s head, but he could imagine it and it made him nauseous with horror.

The rats were eating Hartigan’s defenseless face.

Soon they would eat through his eyes and burrow into his brain, eating that, too, and only then would death come. It was a cruel and painful way to die.

Hartigan’s screams filled the air, hideous shrieks of agony that were only barely muffled by the box. Through it all, Calderon held up the microphone to catch every cry.

After thirty seconds of this, mercifully, death came.

Hartigan’s body abruptly went still, although the box on his head continued to shake, jostled from within by the movement of the rats.

Again, the crowd cheered. Again, Calderon smiled.

Mother and Baba both stared, openmouthed, in disbelief.

Schofield did the same.

“Jesus Christ in Heaven, save us,” he breathed.

Calderon came up to him, still the picture of casual calm.

He looked straight at Schofield as he spoke into his microphone. “Zack? Emma? Are you still there? You can stop this, you know, simply by revealing yourselves. That’s all you have to do. Or else I can continue on sergeants Newman and Huguenot and Captain Schofield here.”

Calderon shrugged, addressed Schofield. “While we wait for them, Captain, let’s talk. Now, I understand from reading your file that you had a fractured relationship with your father. You defended your mother from his beatings and I wonder if this laid the foundations for your rather heroic adulthood. But even heroes suffer loss. Forgive me for opening an old wound, but I’m led to believe that your girlfriend, Ms. Elizabeth Gant, was beheaded by a rather nasty fellow named Jonathan Killian. For a heroic type like you, being helpless to save the woman you loved must have been a most painful thing. As I understand it, you weren’t there when she was killed, were you?”

Schofield stared straight ahead, said nothing.

Calderon said, “To see or hear a loved one being subjected to torture is, in my experience, the most motivating thing for a human being. It is by far the best way to get information from a captive. Those masters of torture, the Japanese in World War II, used such methods regularly both during the war and before it during their infamous sack of Nanking.

“Right now, you have nothing that I want, but Zack and Emma do. My torture of you is solely for the purpose of drawing them out.”

Calderon leaned close and whispered in Schofield’s ear: “I will take you within an inch of death and you will beg me to kill you, but I’m not going to do that right now. As I said, I want to break your mind before I kill you. Mobutu, put the bit between his teeth.”

The Sudanese stepped forward and with a leering gap-toothed grin, ripped off the duct tape and made to jam the wooden bit into Schofield’s mouth.

Schofield took the opportunity to call out: “Mother! When I’m gone, you keep fighting, you hear!” but then Mobutu wedged the bit between his teeth and he could shout no more.

Mother’s and Schofield’s eyes met, matching gazes of helplessness.

Mother called across the space, “I will, Scarecrow! You bet I fucking will!”

Calderon said, “Captain, the device you are strapped to is known as a parrilla , a torture device used widely in Chile during the reign of the Pinochet regime. The word parrilla translates roughly as ‘barbecue.’ It is a form of electric shock torture, with the current shot through the metal frame to which the victim is strapped. I have found that old military-barracks bed frames, with their steel springs and thin crossbars, distribute the electric current to maximum effect while also leaving a unique burn pattern on the back of the victim that never goes away. Mobutu, a taste for the captain: 2,000 volts, please.”

Mobutu turned the dial.

Schofield convulsed violently.

White light flooded his field of vision and excruciating— excruciating —pain shot through his entire body. He wanted to arch his back, stretch out the vertebrae, but he couldn’t, he was pinned down too tightly. His teeth clamped down on the bit and he grunted, trying to scream.

As he did this, Calderon held the microphone up close to his mouth, broadcasting his pained grunts and stifled screams across the island.

“Zack and Emma,” he commentated, “what you are hearing is the sound of the brave Captain Schofield being electrocuted.”

Then, through the blinding pain, Schofield smelled it.

The smell of skin burning. His own skin burning.

He tried to scream again.

Mother strained at her bonds. “You motherfucker!” she yelled at Calderon. “I am gonna rip your fucking head off!”

Calderon nodded to Mobutu and the Sudanese flicked off the dial and Schofield slumped against the bed frame, spent, exhausted, sweating, gasping. His head fell forward as he tried to suck in oxygen.

Calderon smiled. “That was but a mere 2,000 volts against your dry skin, Captain. As you saw with your SEAL friend, Mr. Barker, when the skin is wet, its conductivity increases one-hundredfold. Soon I will have Mobutu douse you in water and turn that dial to a much higher voltage. Then the current won’t burn your skin—it will flow directly through your heart and kill you.”

Calderon nodded at Mobutu and the Sudanese again grabbed the nearby bucket and hurled its remaining contents over Schofield’s body. Schofield hung there on the bed frame, dripping with water.

Calderon threw a sideways glance at Mobutu.

Schofield, despite his overwhelming exhaustion, felt his heart skip—this was it, this was the end—but Calderon suddenly laughed.

“Oh, no, not yet, Captain,” he said with a torturer’s relish. “I told you. I was going to break you before I killed you. You didn’t witness Elizabeth Gant’s death, but trust me, you will see your loyal friend, Mother Newman, die before your very eyes.”

Despite his own pain, Schofield shot a look at Mother.

“Really, Scarecrow. To lose one loved one is tragic. To lose a second is simply careless. What if it happened again: your closest friend horribly executed, dying in extreme pain, right in front of your eyes . That would break a man.”

Schofield’s face went pale, draining of blood.

Calderon smiled.

“Mobutu. Put the box on her and insert the rats.”

WHAT FOLLOWED was more than Schofield—weakened, pinned down, helpless—could bear.