Part 7:

Things get worse

Frank

My body was foreign and numb, my arms and legs cold with a deadened sensation. I slit my eyes open and blinked rapidly, trying to dissipate the murky haze of brown. My skull throbbed from the pounding, the echoes of a thousand avalanches rattling around inside my brain. Gritting my teeth, I slowly overcame the pains and aches, trying to clear my muddled mind. Where was I?

Feeling gradually returned to my limbs, like a river of fire coursing from my brain, coming to pool at the tips of my fingers. I tried to sit up, but a tremendous weight was holding my arms and legs down. I blinked again, trying to re-focus my vision so I could make sense of my current situation.

When my vision finally cleared, my eyes shut open wide with realization. I was lying strapped to a rough-hewn wooden table, dull splinters carving themselves into my back. I shifted my head from side to side violently, examining my new surroundings. I was laying in the center of a room, the only light coming from a collection of orange lanterns joined by an extension cord, basking the room in a dull, hellish glow. Not surprisingly, the walls and ceiling looked to be concrete, brown with dust and grime. The only door was right in front of me, the steel bars re-lining the already sturdy-looking door, killing every hope of escaping. To my left, a dingy wooden table held mountains of disorganized clutter, cables, boxes and rusty chains crammed beneath it, barely recognizable in the orange haze. The table on the other room also held certain accessories, though it would be a mistake to think it trash. Across the thick wooden surface, various picks, awls, knifes and hooks rested in an organized row. Larger hooks, saws and clamps hung over the table in tidy slots.

"This isn't good."

I tried to sit up again, but as before, I failed miserably. I lifted my head to inspect the reason I couldn't move. Leather straps thick enough to make Dr. Mengele jealous encircled my wrists and ankles, binding me to the surface of the wooden table.

Let's re-evaluate; I'm strapped to a table with various tools of torture hanging next to me, the dull metal winking at me in the dim light. Not good!

Like a caged animal I fought viciously against the unforgiving bindings, throwing all my weight at my shoulders in hope of pulling an arm free. All I managed was to pull scraps of skin off my wrists. I tried using the blood as lubricant, but the straps were like sandpaper, and I remained trapped.

Faint voices were coming from the other side of the thick door, and I redoubled my efforts to get free, hoping that I at least could get one arm out to strangle whoever opened that door. The door opened, the rusty hinges wailing like a banshee. In the doorway, a gigantic silhouette filled the doorway like an obese grim reaper. Even though his uniform and skin was dyed orange by the lanterns, I could never mistake that grotesque figure.

Biggs.

A smile was sprawled over his fat face, pushing his chunky cheeks up, almost covering his eyes. What could be seen of them glinted with eager anticipation. He was shirtless, his fat, greasy, hairy stomach gleaming with perspiration.

Behind him came the ratty man that had escorted Payne, his shifty eyes darting back and worth under his oily brown hair, anxiety dominating his narrow face.

"Well, well, lookie here" Biggs grunted "It's the big bad Puny-sher"

He oinked at his little joke, and the ratty man exploded in a fit of nervous, nasal laughter that sounded very forced.

"Shut up, Deakins!" Biggs bellowed at the ratty man. He immediately stopped, eyes alight with fright. He was deathly scared of the fat man that much was obvious.

"Falzon's given me pre-missun' t' take care o' you'se" He grinned, revealing a dark gap where he was missing a tooth.

I just kept my eyes fixed on the orange ceiling, choosing to block him out completely. I searched for a small fraction of peace with my family, trying not to imagine what the man-mountain would do to satisfy his sadistic tendencies. After a few seconds of thundering silence, he grabbed my collar and pulled my face close to his sweaty features.

"I'm talkin' to you'se!" He screamed angrily, again pebbling my face with slimy spittle.

That earned him my hatred and an iron-hard stare, as if I tried to gouge out his eyes with mine. I didn't relieve him of it for an eternity, and his is eyes began to waver.

"You just killed yourself" I growled with my best graveyard-voice."

"Why you gawd damned piece o' shit!" His ham-like fist socked me on the jaw, slamming my head into the table and sending the orange-bathed room spinning around me. Biggs' breathing was labored, as if he had accidentally fatigued himself with the outburst, and he had to grab the edge of the table to steady his huge frame. Deakins was shaking like a leaf, his skin shining with cold sweat in the unsettling glow. He looked like a cornered rat, searching for an escape from this hellish confine and finding none.

When my vision slipped back in focus, I saw Biggs standing over me, brandishing a wicked-looking pair of pliers. His eyes were completely covered by his cheeks, fat lips twisted in an excited smile. Pearls of sweat were dotted on his hairless scalp, glowing like ambers in the dull light.

I knew how these things worked. I wasn't meant to survive. It was only a matter of how much pain I had to suffer before checking out.

Max

"Feeling better, Mr. Payne?"

I didn't know if it was a rhetorical question, and act of politeness or sheer stupidity. I knew for certain it wasn't concern. I just had my entire body caved in, and even though I had swallowed so many painkillers that I probably wouldn't notice if somebody sawed off my legs, it still felt like all two hundred and forty-five bones in my body had been pulverized.

"Take a wild guess" I managed to squeeze out between my split lips.

Falzon remained unmoving; his face was carved in stone. He almost blended in with the immaculate surroundings of his office, sharp lines of white and grey outlined the walls and furniture. It was very spartan, not containing anything more than necessary, yet still reeking with reserved style. There were no sons, daughters or wives on the walls, smiling at him with eternalized happiness, only the monotone stencil of countless diplomas and certificates. I had only spotted one picture standing on his gigantic mahogany desk like a lone palm in the desert, and that was the familiar scene of the late senator Woden, late senator Khorkerin, and some other nameless faces standing in front of the late Woden manor. The Inner Circle.

Falzon cut to the chase, his steel-grey eyes radiating scorching cold. "We are getting you out of here now. This is getting dangerous"

"And how do you plan on accomplishing that? It isn't just a simple matter of walking out the front gate. As far as I'm informed the press has more or less laid siege to this place"

I was surprised I had been able to keep up that monologue without fainting. I felt like sleeping.

"That is all taken care of. As far as the press is concerned, we caught you trying to escape, and shot you in the back of the head, your face blown clean away. We will deliver your unrecognizable body to the proper authorities, case closed."

"I've heard that one before" My thoughts drifted back to Punchinello.

"You will be clean. We can give you a facial make-over and you'll be a free man" He folded his fingers, looking every bit the business man he was.

"Sounds like a lot of work for you. Why doesn't the Inner Circle just kill me?" I might seem paranoid, but being betrayed over and over again had taught me not to trust anyone

Not a single muscle moved on his face, the only motion being running his thumb and index-finger over his close-trimmed moustache.

"The Inner Circle doesn't work like that. We never resort to such basic solutions unless it is absolutely crucial, as was the case with Nicole Horne." His mask finally cracked, displaying the smallest glint of emotion. A thin smile. "Besides, graveyards are full of people who have tried to murder you, and I certainly have no desire to make the same mistake they did." His face morphed back to the original chiseled appearance.

"Now, Tompkinson will arrive later tonight to…"

He never managed to finish the sentence, as the heavy door to his office sprung open, spewing uniformed inmates into the stainless office. They all had weapons. Prison guard-issue weapons. Not a good sign. One tattooed mook stepped up, pointing the business-end of a 12 gauge at the heart of Falzon.

"DeZantes doesn't like being crossed" The mook yelled, the death-iron in his hands never averting its aim.

"He wants Payne dead!"

Falzon remained deadpan.

"The guards will be here any minute… He started

"Oh, you mean these guards?" The mook grinned sickly as several riot-geared prison guards came marching in, their eyes glowing with glee. They were so paid off that I could smell it, every one of them.

"We'll be waiting outside" One of the crooked guards crooned with a cruel smirk. "You guys have fun" The cacophony of heavy footsteps filed out the door, leaving the crooks, Falzon, and me…

"You won't get away with this, I'm…" the sentence on Falzon's lips remained forever unspoken as a shotgun-shell slammed into his chest, sending him reeling over his desk. I didn't miss a beat, and as soon as the shot sounded, adrenaline had me throwing myself behind the enormous desk and flipped it over, creating a make-shaft cover. I had no weapons and only one escape route that was blocked by several bloodthirsty inmates packing heat. Their brutal laughter told of my impossible situation.

"Come out here, Payne, and I'll make it nice an' clean…Or, as clean as it can be with a shotgun" Hideous laughter followed that sentence, cutting like knives into my soul. I looked around. I smiled, and for a split second I though that maybe lady luck and I were on speaking terms again. By divine intervention or standard procedure, take your pick, Falzon had a gun taped to the underside of his desk. In these everlasting seconds I saw how smart it was having it there, so he wouldn't have to fumble around with the drawers in case of something like this.

I tore it off, and just as the mook with the shotgun peeked around the corner, nine millimeters of metal greeted his head, tearing a big bloody chunk out of it.

The others reeled, and time slowed down as I let the bullets play patty-cake on their upper bodies, only one brave heart managing to get a shot off that missed sorely. Blood sprayed. Hearts stopped. They went down hard.

This was bad. This was really bad. Luck was toying with me like a sadistic cat with an injured mouse. How was I going to escape this fort Knox with every guard and prisoner on the island gunning for me? I stuffed two unused berrettas into the back of my jeans and picked up the shotgun from the blood-stained carpet. The familiarity of the weapons felt like a gift-wrapped curse. There was an army of guards and prisoners, thirty-feet concrete walls topped with barb-wire and many miles of shark-filled water standing between me and my freedom.

I stood up, and a lightening-bolt in my stomach reminded me that the painkillers were already wearing off…or that thepain was increasing

But then again, if there was something I had become good at lately, it was beating ridiculous odds.


Huge thanks to ACTIONMAX and SORCESESS CASSANDRA 180! I love you guys :D

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