Chapter 11: Job 30

"Terrors are turned upon me; my honor is pursued as by the wind, and my prosperity has passed away like a cloud. And now my soul is poured out within me; days of affliction have taken hold of me." (Job 30:15-16)

June 3

"Now just hop on the table, head here." The lieutenant spoke cheerfully, as if to a small child. As if he was going to enjoy this. Still very sore from spending the night in a tiny 'box,' Nick Blaine moved slowly onto the table. The lieutenant's attitude, along with his flat blue eyes, reminded Nick of his own father; he'd also enjoyed inflicting pain on others. It was not a pleasant memory, and he faltered in place. Stans pulled out an electric cattle prod, zapped Nick's shoulder with it. "Faster, please." Holy shit, that hurts. That's what they use on the handmaids? His thoughts strayed to June. If she could endure those shocks, so can I. Then he thought about what June might say at this point. Fuck this shit is all he could come up with.

This new prison cell was very dimly lit. No windows, thick metal door. Dark grey walls. The table was steel, with four leather cuffs to secure legs and arms. It seemed to tilt at a strange angle, maybe just to throw the victim off balance, maybe for some other purpose that Nick hadn't yet figured out. At the head of the table was a sink. Am I getting a haircut? If so, this is the worst goddamned Hair Cuttery I've ever seen in my life. He was trying to keep calm by joking to himself as Guardians tightened the leather around his wrists.

Stans knelt next to the table, along with the masked Guardians, and said a quick prayer. Something about Nick seeing the error of his ways. That's not from the Bible, he thought smugly, secure in his knowledge of scripture. But of course this guy doesn't read the Bible.

"Are you all set?" Stans asked him.

"Sure," Nick answered. What else could he say?

"All righty then." Definitely enjoying this. "I'd like to discuss three days ago. Did you meet Miss Osborne at a house or in a building, like a store?"

"I didn't meet her at all." Nick wasn't usually a stubborn person, but this was the lie he was going with, and he'd be damned if he'd deviate from it. Protect your family at all costs: this was Nick's new motto. At least, the motto du jour. He pictured Holly smiling up at him, showing off her stuffed animal. Woof, what a good name. Stans shocked him again with the cattle prod, this time on his belly. His heart jumped, skipped a beat, readjusted. He tried to breathe slowly, evenly.

"If you're going to maintain that story, this is going to be a long ordeal for you. Nick, why don't you just try honesty? You'll feel so much better. You don't owe that handmaid anything. Don't be a hero. She'll never know what you say here, because she will never see you again. Do you understand that?" Stans shocked him again. "A house or a store?"

Nick remained mute. Closed his eyes. At least this table was more comfortable than that fucking dog crate had been; maybe he could get some rest. He doubted it, but maybe. Stans moved away from him, down towards his feet. Good riddance; the guy smelled like mothballs. 'Don't be a hero' is something Nick probably told June a few years ago. Just tell them what they want. Everybody breaks. Don't martyr yourself. He may have even believed that once. But that was before he understood how powerful love could be. He wouldn't have lasted long under interrogation then, because he had nothing and nobody to protect. Interrogator rhymes with alligator, Nick thought. Baiter. Cheese grater. Darth Vader. His shoes and socks were removed. The cattle prod shocked his feet, making his legs twitch and his heart once again jump a beat. Darth Vader definitely feels right.

Vader was talking to him in a conversational tone of voice, although they weren't having a conversation. "So it was a house, then? There aren't many businesses in that area north of the border. She must live there—otherwise, you wouldn't have a problem giving up the location." Zap. "Nick, what sort of house was it? Small, one-story? Or maybe bigger, two stories?" Zap. His feet and calves were twitching, cramping. Lots of nerve endings in the soles of the feet.

Eyes still closed, Nick decided to recall his time with June and Holly, recounting each detail in his head as if telling a story to someone. Later, when he was free, he'd write the whole story down, before he forgot anything. He'd never kept a diary before, but he badly wanted to remember those two days. The house was set in a forest. No…you have to describe everything. The bare-bones, one-bedroom ranch house was set among uncut grass and old trees. I opened the car door and smelled pine trees. I knocked three times, and June pulled me inside and locked the door behind us. She sank into me, snuggling against my chest, arms wrapping around me. I love her arms.

"Have you ever been water boarded, Nick?"

That's Commander Blaine to you, you asshole.

His ankles in manacles, chain dragging on the ground, Nick shuffled back towards his original cell. The fingers of his left hand were bleeding; he wiped the blood on his beige tunic as he walked. He glanced sideways at the Guardians accompanying him. Faceless, masked, but still…maybe he could befriend them. "Hey, guys, I promise I'll go into my little box like a good boy, but could we stop at the restroom first? Please?" They didn't respond. "I'm one of you," he continued, trying not to sound whiny or eager. "I was a Guardian, then an Eye for four years before getting promoted. I served two tours in Chicago. Please, just leave me a little dignity."

The two guards stopped, looked at each other, shrugged. "All right, Commander Blaine." One of them took his arm gently, guided him down a different hallway to an actual toilet. He whispered, "I have a friend who served with you in Chicago. He said you were a good guy."

"I try to be," Nick muttered, wondering how this man knew his name. Prisoners were supposed to be nameless. Dehumanized. He smiled gently at the Guardians, thanked them. After all, there was still civility left in the world, even in a place like this.

Nick spent another night—day, night?—in his little dog crate. He didn't mind it as much this time. It was a reprieve, a refuge. Anything to get him away from Lieutenant Stans and his twisted toys. He tried to recite some Job from memory, just to keep himself sane and focused. Chapter 30, that one was definitely apropos. I cry to thee and thou dost not answer me. Thou liftest me up on the wind, thou makest me ride on it and tossest me about in the roar of the storm. Yea, I know that thou wilt bring me to death.

Or maybe this was the wrong book to be quoting. Maybe God would yet rescue him; he shouldn't lose faith. Or maybe June would come for him. If she knew he were imprisoned, she wouldn't wait around for God to pull a rabbit out of His divine hat. Nor would she let God bring him to death. She would save him, Nick was sure of that. His faith in God might waver, but his trust in June was rock solid.

He mumbled as much of Job as he could remember, then switched to Ephesians 6. When June was arrested and brought to prison, Nick had given her the beginning of this quote, hoping against hope that she was familiar with it and that it would strengthen her. Be strong with the Lord and in the strength of His might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil. For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers in this world of darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand this evil day, and having done all, to stand firm.

Eventually, mercifully, he fell asleep and dreamed of June making love with him while wearing armor.

June 4

The only good thing about being water boarded—the only good thing—was that after three days of captivity and torture, the cold water was kind of refreshing. Nick desperately wanted a hot shower and a toothbrush. Instead, he was getting doused with cold water on his face. Again. At least now he knew what was coming, and knew he could withstand it. He hadn't said a word about June or Nichole. No, Holly. She was Holly now.

He hoped his silence was driving his interrogators insane.

Today's lieutenant—not Stans, but another, equally-awful replacement—had a new plan for this morning. Blaine was shackled and brought to a different room. In it stood a wooden cross, maybe 7 feet high, in an otherwise barren cell. A thin shaft of light came through a small window. For Nick, the light was a reminder of God's presence. God has not forsaken this place. The lieutenant removed his filthy prison tunic, leaving Nick only in his underwear. Two Guardians pushed him forward and tied his wrists to the edges of the cross, his face pressed against the wood. His feet were on the ground. Guys, if you're trying to crucify me, I'm facing the wrong way. And I should be hanging above the ground. Haven't you ever seen a painting of Jesus on the cross? Either you're complete incompetents, or you've got something else up your sleeves.

The interrogator caressed Blaine's back, speculatively, in a way that would get him hanged if anyone dared mention it. Then he spoke solemnly to the Guardians, reciting Deuteronomy 25 from memory: "If the guilty man deserves to be beaten, the judge shall cause him to lie down and be beaten in proportion to his offense. Forty lashes may be given to him, but not more."

Oh, shit. Well, this is not going to be fun.

Nick heard a cabinet door open, then close again. He glanced to the side, saw the lieutenant held a single leather whip, about a meter long including the handle. Not a cat o'nine tails, then: this is only one tail. Nick thought of his childhood. He'd gotten plenty of whippings with a belt. As long as his father didn't use the buckle end, it was tolerable. He could endure this. He knew he could. He steeled himself.

"One." A Guardian counted each stroke, so as not to exceed the allowed number. In the Old Testament, they always stopped at thirty-nine, just in case they miscounted and actually got to forty, the absolute maximum.

Nick forced his mind someplace else. Maui. June & Holly on the beach. Morning, before the sun gets too hot. June in sunglasses and a white sundress, blond hair loose, smiling as she kneels in the soft sand. Their baby in a little green swimsuit, the color of freshly-cut grass, with a sunhat to protect her delicate face. Music coming from someone's boom box. Marvin Gaye: How sweet it is to be loved by you. They're making a sandcastle. Holly wades into the water, giggling as the waves hit her toes. He runs after her, holding her hand tightly, keeping her safe. Palm trees wave in the breeze. Nick can hear a distant sound of screaming, or maybe it's just the cries of seagulls and his daughter's laughter.

June 5

Nick became vaguely aware that his face was pressed into a foul-smelling floor. He tried to turn his head, found it was just too heavy. His head was filled with cotton. Very heavy cotton. Eventually, he managed to roll onto his side, and curled into a fetal position. Boots were coming towards him. They were trying to be quiet, but the heels tapped against the metal floor. Shh. Go away. Leave me alone.

A voice spoke in an urgent whisper. "Captain? Please stand up. Captain!"

"Is he dead?"

"No, his chest is moving. He's breathing. Commander Blaine? Please wake up. It's Jonah. Your sergeant from Chicago. Jonah. Do you hear me?"

"Fuck off," Nick murmured, half-conscious.

"That's our captain! Sir, we're getting you out of here." Several hands picked him up, put him on a stretcher. They covered him head to toe with a clean white sheet: a corpse being taken to the morgue. "Lay him on his side," someone advised. They tried to be gentle, but the fragile skin on his back tore open as he was moved, and he passed out again.