CHAPTER 7

I can breathe. I can. I've been doing it forever, nothing new today, Hardy. In. Out. Yep, nothing to it. I can.

Frank shook his head slightly, steering sweat away from his eyes beneath the cloying fabric. The hood blocked his vision, yet he couldn't seem to stop attempting to peer through it whenever he could tear his thoughts away from breathing. The stifling humidity combined with the now soggy cloth clinging to his nose and mouth was making that increasingly rare.

Someone had yanked him to his feet hours ago, walking him outside of the hotel only to drop him back to his knees on the ground. At some point after that, it had started to rain again, soaking him to the bone. He'd hoped it might be cooler when the deluge finally stopped, but even now when he was sure it was after sundown, it felt more like a terrarium. So he knelt in the mud, knees and back aching, wrists rubbed raw, pretending he wasn't struggling for air.

Least Joe's getting out…. Wait, did I just do that? Center in on Joe? Not that Biff and Chet aren't getting out….or that it's Joe I'm more worried about….they'll all make sure Mom's ok…. Didn't mean just Joe, guys… Sorry….great, now I'm apologizing for things I only said in my head…can't think…could think if I could breathe….in…out….

Hands hooked under his arms, pulling him up again and ending the confused musings. Frank felt the soles of his feet sink into the mushy ground, but his kinked knees wouldn't straighten to support him. As soon as he was released, he flopped forward, bound hands useless, landing face down in the slop. He managed to turn his head to the side, realizing the added weight of the mud was sealing off what little air had been coming through the cloth over his head. Maybe if he could huff enough air out to blow it away from his nose again, he'd be able to catch his breath. Then he could work on levering himself off the ground.

"Bangunkan keledai anda sekarang!"

Frank had no idea what that meant, but the fact that the yell was punctuated with a sharp kick in his ribs suggested it didn't translate 'carry on then.'

"Ke atas!" This kick was harder than the last and caught him in the ear.

Stayed down after the first one and I got kicked again, so I'm thinking that's the wrong answer….ugh, need more air…. Frank rolled to his side, fighting to force numb legs back under him, pausing on his knees before trying to get all the way to his feet. The ringing in his ear spread with amazing rapidity to the rest of his head, a fierce throb in its wake. The process wasn't graceful, several staggering steps ensuing before he was convinced he wasn't going to fall over again, but it must have been the right response. No one kicked him again, anyway. He wouldn't have thought he could miss Clipboard and his cronies, but at least he understood what they wanted. It would seem the rank and file didn't speak any English.

"Datang."

What? Can't think…What does he want?

"Datang!"

Whatever it is, I think he means now…. Breathe. Frank felt a hand slide down his spine, stopping at the crossed wrists to give him a weak shove. Not hard enough to unbalance him, just enough to make him take a step. That seemed clear enough. Frank started walking, steps hesitant between the slick ground, vertigo, and lack of sight. The hand behind saved him none too gently from a few stumbles, steering him vaguely to the left. Frank suppressed a grunt as his shin ran into a firm edge, bringing him to a halt.

Another set of hands tugged upward on his shoulders, the one on his back sliding lower to push on his rump. Not a hint he wanted to get twice. Step up. He tentatively lifted a leg, finding a step about two feet off the ground. It was narrow, smaller than the length of his foot, and had a hard corrugated surface. It gave a little as he stepped onto it, only the new hands above keeping him from slipping off backwards. A second tug found his other foot onboard what he had decided was metal, then passing the ledge to a similar surface six inches higher. A fist wrapped in the hood at his throat, forcing him to duck his head as he shuffled forward. His shoulder brushed against what felt like the wall of a tent.

Not a tent, think Hardy… the floor moved. Truck. It's the back of a transport truck…There's no air in here, either….no, of course there is…in…out…has to be….in…

"Duduk."

An elbow speared into his stomach, knocking him onto his tailbone hard enough to jar his teeth together. Guess that's 'sit down'…

Frank felt the plastic linking his hands fall away, only to be replaced by a metal band that seemed to loop around a post behind his back. His legs were pulled straight in front of him, the sounds of unspooling duct tape explaining the tight stickiness at his now restrained ankles. Fingers fumbled at his neck as someone straddled his knees. A thin hard edge grazed his Adam's apple.

It's ok…breathe…didn't need to haul me in here to slit my throat… in ….out…need some air…not scared….course not…in….wow, dizzy….out…

His brown eyes caught a brief glimpse of a looming face as the blade slit the hood away, fluttering closed before he could even confirm it was a truck.

Frank had no idea how long ago he'd fainted, only that a weak breeze now circulated in front of his nose, blessedly clearing his head. He tried opening his eyes, discovering that while the hood was gone a blindfold had replaced it. The surface he sat on jolted and swayed, bumping over potholes in a deeply rutted road, and for a moment he thought that was what had awakened him. Then a slight touch tapped on his scalp and he realized this had been the culprit. It was raining again, water dropping repetitively into his hair.

The churning ride ground to stop a few hours later, Frank's rebelling stomach glad for the reprieve. While still concerned about the blow to the head earlier, he had pretty much decided that the nausea was from the trip rather than a concussion. His head still pounded, but his thought process was more lucid than he expected based on the blur from before. Amazing what adequate oxygen will do .…

"Waktu untuk keluar."

Somehow he'd hoped that he'd imagined his captors switching to their native tongue. A clearer head wasn't going to be of much help there. As before, the commands appeared to be physical as someone grabbed him as the words were spoken. His hands were freed from the post and refastened behind him at the same time his ankles were cut loose, so there was definitely more than one person at work. That was probably just as well. Frank couldn't have stood unaided, legs too stiff from protracted stillness.

He staggered across uneven ground, more dragged than led by the men who supported him. He heard a gate clang behind him as they let go. Frank managed to keep his feet, returning circulation stinging into his bare toes, but the accomplishment was short lived. A sudden shove landed him in the dirt yet again, a knee firmly planted in the small of his back.

The breath he'd finally regained whooshed free again as the knee ground in viciously, full weight of his handler pressing his spine seemingly forward to his navel. Fingers slipped into his hair, momentarily alarming him until the blindfold fell away. Watery daylight met his squint, pale grey but still overwhelming after the prolonged darkness. Frank blinked away the water drizzling down from his hair, getting his first look at a fortress.

Tan stone rose out of the mud, an ancient wall incongruently topped with razor wire forty yards ahead of him. A single-story building sat between, composed of the same stone interspersed with metal doors and barred windows, clearly added later. An odd sort of stunted wall ran out from both sides of the structure, perhaps three feet high and four thick. Rectangular iron grates interrupted the short vertical surface at regular intervals, rainwater funneling in. Frank risked a glance to the side, not surprised when it earned him a quick kidney punch. No other buildings were evident, although a few more prisoners were strewn on the ground, each complete with a guard. Additional soldiers roamed the grounds, cradling automatic weapons.

"Menunggu."

Sure, menunggu, whatever you say… Frank's attention shifted as one of the other prisoners was lifted by a pair of guards and marched to the building's door. Careful not to move his head this time and get hit again, he could see most of what occurred. Unlike himself, the bound man appeared to understand the language, dropping his eyes to his feet as he answered a few questions with single words. Frank had no idea if the answers were satisfactory or not. A gun was trained on the man as his hands were released, the remaining guard rapidly stripping him before hosing off the accumulated mud and then offering a pair of neon turquoise shorts. The man jerked them on, pale skin now beet red, although whether that was from embarrassment or the force of the water Frank couldn't have said.

The hose discarded, the guard selected something metal off the window ledge and pressed it against the prisoner's posterior shoulder. Frank couldn't tell what it was from his position on the ground, but the other man gave no indication that it hurt. The guard spoke to him again and the man knelt. A slight humming sound filled the air as black curls fluttered from his scalp to the ground, blending into the soil.

Satisfied with the shorn head, the guards set the man back to his feet, approaching one of the grates in the shorter walls. Frank watched them unbolt it, then force the man to crawl inside. One of them dropped to the earth as well, reaching a hand inside to fumble with something before re-bolting the door.

Frank watched the same process repeated with six additional men, the fourth one apparently straying from acceptable answers. The guards used their gunstocks to beat him into oblivion and had to hold him up to clean him off and clip his hair, but other than that there was no deviation from the routine. Slamming the bolt home on the seventh man's grate, the guards came for Frank. Really don't think I'm going to like it here…

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to be continued...