Broken Worlds Super Boxset (74 page)

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The tank’s tracks cut deep rivets into the earth as it rolled forward, flanked by an array of armored trucks and soldiers. Twenty yards to the left, another unit marched in unison. The dirt and greased-streaked faces of the soldiers inside the tank held a quiet focus, sitting on the line between rage and serenity. The aura in the tank was generated by their commander, Luis Claire.

Luis sat atop the tank’s open hatch, feeling the warm sun on his face and the cool air blowing through his hair. He rubbed his eyes, attempting to maintain the same level of focus that had brought him this far, but the two previous battles on their way into Wyoming had stolen some of his vigor. After he rubbed his eyes, he wiped his cheek and felt the stick of some residue transfer to the back of his hand. He examined the substance and then quickly smeared the red stain on the sleeve of his uniform, where the red streak joined a cluster of similar marks.

The rhythmic metallic tink, tink, tink, of the tank’s tracks was the constant soundtrack in Luis’ mind, and it would be there for the considerable future. He knew it would keep him up at night, and when those precious moments of sleep finally took him, that same sound would awaken nightmares long since dormant.

The sturdiness of land was something he was still growing accustomed to. He missed the smell of salt water, the slight rocking of a ship in the waves. The ocean was fluid motion, never stopping, always moving, always alive. That life fed him energy and propelled him forward. He was connected to it, and now being so far away from the coast, he found himself in need of rejuvenation. But that need wouldn’t be satisfied until the job was done.

Luis ducked back down into the tank. Each of his men guarded their station with the attentiveness of a man fighting for more than just his own life. He chose these men because of their wits, and these soldiers knew that once the first shots were fired fifty miles behind them, the war wouldn’t stop until they’d made it to the east coast.

“How much farther, Sergeant?” Luis asked.

“Three miles out, Commander.”

“Guns up, gentlemen.”

“Yes, sir!”

The sergeant radioed the second tank, and Luis locked the top hatch. “Gunner, I want the front gate turned to ash the moment it comes into sight.”

“Affirmative, sir.”

The M1 Abrams’ 105mm gun was locked and loaded. The gunner kept an eye on the sights and the outline of the community came into view in the distance. “I have visual, Commander.”

“Fire.”

A blast of smoke erupted from the cannon, and the vibrations from the powerful blow radiated throughout the rest of the tank. The resulting explosion in the distance of the community’s main front gate was echoed with “We have good effect.”

Two more blasts echoed as the two M1 Abrams continued their assault on both the front gate and the sentry’s housing unit once it was identified. The ballistic fire-controlled computer gave the tank and its crew the precision needed to destroy an enemy in urban scenarios without loss of civilian life. Their job was to kill the bad guys, not hurt the good ones.

The soldiers climbed over the debris of the front entrance to the community while Luis’s tank provided cover at the front. The second tank flanked the left to run a perimeter check for any sentries that were trying to escape.

The hatch to the tank opened and Luis climbed out and down the side. One of the soldiers on the ground handed him an assault rifle, and he joined the clearing of Main Street. One of his men came running up to him. “Sir, the sentries have either been killed or they ran. The second unit caught a few of them, but the rest of Main Street is clear.”

“Good. Send a unit up to the housing section. Make sure none of them are hiding in there.”

Slowly, one by one, the citizens of the community made their way out of the factory. The backs of their shirts were stained red. Luis marched through them, looking for his sister. “Emma? Where’s Emma Claire?” The faces of the citizens looked around as if they couldn’t understand the words coming out Luis’ mouth.

“She’s not here,” a voice said.

Luis spun around, trying to locate the source. When Luis found the man, he rushed to him frantically. It was an older man. Luis grabbed his shoulders. “Where is she?”

“The Coalition took her,” the man said. His eyes were empty, and Luis could feel wet liquid on the tips of his fingers that had curled onto the top of the old man’s back. When he removed his fingers, they had a faint tinge of red on them.

“What happened here?” Luis asked.

“A man came. We thought he was here to help us. But he wasn’t.” The old man’s voice was soft and hollow. He spoke with no expression on his face. The words came out of him like they were nothing more than a programmed response.

“What man? Where is he now?” Luis asked, trying to pry as much information out of the man as possible.

“Kansas. He went back to Kansas.”

“Where in Kansas? Is he in Topeka? What’s his name?”

The old man didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at Luis. He simply stared into the rolling hills beyond the gate, his blue eyes glazed over in a trance that Luis didn’t know how to break through.

“What’s his name?” Luis repeated.

“Alex,” the old man said. “His name is Alex.”

The well of blood in the bullet hole had finally run dry, leaving a clotted crimson stain on Todd’s shoulder, with dried, red streaks down his arm, chest, and stomach. The hours of being tied to the chair had stiffened Todd’s body to the point of concrete, and with each blow across his face, stomach, and body, he could feel the cracking fault lines spreading across his cemented muscles and bones. A thick coat of sweat and blood covered the swollen flesh on his face, leaving him almost unrecognizable. He pulled lightly, and fruitlessly, against the duct tape around his wrists and ankles, keeping him in place for whatever other tortures his captors could conjure.

The room was small and made even more cramped by the four other bodies inside. Three of the men were sentries, each of them with the sleeves of their uniforms rolled up and their knuckles shimmering red. They’d all taken turns on him, a violent contest of who could inflict the most pain, but Todd couldn’t be sure anymore who had taken the lead.

Todd sat in the only piece of furniture in the room, but the others were comfortable standing in their positions of power. A hand grabbed a fistful of Todd’s hair and yanked him back, exposing every cut, bruise, and gash along his face under the fluorescent lighting.

Todd’s left eye had swollen shut, but as the man holding him hostage shifted over to his right, Gordon’s face slowly came into view.

“What. Is. The password?” Gordon asked.

Drips of sweat fell from the slick sheen on Gordon’s face and into the cuts along Todd’s cheek. Each drop burned and triggered a twitch in Todd’s one good eye.

“Every second you make me wait is one more where I get to hurt you,” Gordon said, pressing his finger into the bullet hole on Todd’s shoulder. “So why don’t you help yourself out?”

Gordon’s finger pierced the flesh slowly, digging his way into the meat and filling the well once more with blood. Every inch that Gordon prodded his finger deeper into the meat of Todd’s shoulder blinded his mind with pain, generating cold shakes and tremors throughout his body. Finally, with the pain reaching a crescendo, Gordon removed his finger.

Not realizing he’d been holding his breath, Todd exhaled in a large gasp, and his body slouched, his muscles releasing their control from the relief of pain. But it was short lived, as Gordon sent his fist into Todd’s ribs, knocking him over.

Todd smacked against the floor. The crack of the wooden chair was matched by the snap in Todd’s left arm. The lightning strike of pain was quickly replaced by a sprawling numbness until nothing but a slight tingle was left in his fingertips.

“Pick him up!” Gordon said.

The scuffle of blurred boots crossed the path of his one good eye, and he felt the room shift from horizontal to vertical.

“Untie his hands,” Gordon said.

The numbness in Todd’s left arm morphed into knives tearing into flesh as the sentries roughly unwrapped the tape around his wrists, but kept his ankles tied. With the muscles in his neck forgoing their support of his head, all Todd could see were the tips of Gordon’s shoes. They were black, leather. The kind you’d wear to a formal dinner, or church, listening to the preacher speak at the altar. But the altar in this room was built for sacrificial lambs, and Gordon had willingly set him upon it.

“Hold his hands out,” Gordon said.

One pair of thick hands held Todd’s shoulders, pinning him down, and the other two pairs grabbed hold of his wrists. What little vision Todd had in his right eye faded. It wouldn’t be long before it completely swelled shut. But he had just enough eyesight left to see the pliers in Gordon’s hand. Todd clenched his right fist shut, but his broken left arm wouldn’t respond to the same commands, leaving his fingernails exposed and vulnerable.

Gordon placed the tip of the pliers on the end of the nail on Todd’s left index finger. Todd gave a few panicked thrashes, but his pain and fatigue couldn’t overpower the strength of the sentries surrounding him. Gordon applied a steady, even pressure, pulling on the nail. Todd’s breathing accelerated. His pulse skyrocketed. Adrenaline coursed through his body, igniting the sharp awareness of the pain to come.

“What’s the password, Todd?” Gordon asked.

The detachment was slow, the cuticle separating from the tender flesh it protected. Each increased increment of tension from Gordon added to the anticipation of pain, which would crescendo until the final crash, where it would end until Gordon grabbed hold of the next nail. Torture was an art form. And Gordon had all the tools he needed to finish his masterpiece.

Todd’s continued insubordination was punished with one quick tug from the pliers. Todd’s limbs released a series of knee-jerk reaction of reflexes as blood flooded the tender, exposed flesh. Gordon dropped the hardened piece of keratin to the floor and guided the tip of the pliers to the next nail.

“We can do this for every single one of your fingers and toes, Todd,” Gordon said.

Todd kept his one good eye locked onto Gordon. No matter what he did to him, no matter what he threatened him with, no matter the excruciating amount of pain Gordon inflicted, Todd was not giving it up. He gathered what saliva was left in his mouth and spit on Gordon’s cheek.

Gordon released Todd’s middle nail and dropped the pliers. The goons around Todd kept their hold on him as Gordon twirled the pliers around in his hand and wiped the spit from his face. “Bring her over!” Gordon’s voice boomed against the room’s walls and Todd could feel his heart sink at the sound of those words. A heightened panic rushed over him.

A few moments passed before the door to Todd’s chamber swung open aggressively. The man with the black jacket, whom he’d remembered from a blood inspection over a month ago, held his wife by the scruff of her neck and threw her to the floor with the same violence with which he entered.

Emma’s face was covered in welts, cuts, and bruises. The result of Todd’s silence was there in front of him. His own wife, writhing in pain. They had done this because of him. This was his fault. He brought that evil on her.

Gordon pulled Emma’s head up by the tangled nest that was her hair, further exposing the details of torture. “Such a pity,” Gordon said. “Not sure she’s as fuckable as she used to be.” He snapped his fingers and held out his hand, to which Jake handed him the pistol from his shoulder holster. Gordon jammed the barrel against Emma’s temple and placed his finger on the trigger. “What’s the password, Todd?”

“This isn’t how you’re going to get what you want,” Todd answered.

Gordon viciously smacked Emma’s cheek with the side of the pistol and she hit the floor with a crack that echoed through Todd’s body, followed by a wail of uncontrollable curses from Todd’s mouth. “YoufuckingsonofabitchIwillkillyou!” He thrashed against the sentries still holding him down, ignoring the firing synapses of pain his brain was triggering from his jerky motions.

Gordon repositioned the barrel of the gun against Emma’s temple. “I’m going to count to three. If you don’t give me the password to your encrypted data by the time I get there, then I’m going to kill her. One.”

“I’ll tell you,” Todd said, his voice high, weak, and cracking from the strenuous screams his throat had echoed for the past hour. Gordon lowered his pistol and wiped his hands clean of the soiled torture they were stained with.

“See?” Gordon asked. “It wasn’t that hard, was it?”

All of the work and toil over the years, all of Todd’s sacrifices, all of his wife’s sacrifices, were about to be for naught. Gordon would have complete access to Todd’s work, and the balance of power would now be shifted in his favor.
How did this happen?

The compass of blame he’d pointed at himself when they were captured suddenly shifted in another direction. The tip of the needle aimed beyond the bodies in the room to somewhere in the distance. Todd was guilty of trust, yes, but he was not to blame for their current predicament. No, that was the fault of the one man who betrayed him.
Alex Grives.