A Billion Ways to Die (2 page)

The men in the boat said nothing. I understood the futility of asking questions. No words of mine would change the fact that we were utterly in their power, and yet our own silence seemed to enforce a perverse equality. Emotional distance in defiance of physical helplessness.

My breath, trapped inside the cloth hood, smelled foul. It must be what fear smells like to dogs, I thought. A pungent, degraded smell.

After at least another hour, the boat suddenly slowed and changed direction. Now more perpendicular to the swells, we flopped over peak and trough. Then I felt fresh acceleration and another sharp turn. We were maneuvering.

The men started moving around, throwing random undulations into the natural pitch and roll. I heard a voice, speaking low, then a response. The motors dropped down to idle and the gear lever was slipped into neutral. We bumped into something immovable, knocking me into Natsumi. She breathed in sharply and her body tensed. A voice came from outside and above the boat. I heard the whirr of an electric winch, then felt a line weighted at the end smack into my shoulder. A hand gripped me for balance. The boat wobbled and bobbed, and banged steadily into a solid mass. I heard metallic clicks and one of the men shout, “Secured.”

The boat performed one more loopy dance and we were suddenly free of the water. The winch whirred louder and a fresh breeze pushed us into the solid thing, which this time we slid against, causing a scraping sound.

I gripped Natsumi a little tighter.

Moments later, the upward movement reversed and I felt the boat move smoothly through the air. I braced for what I knew would follow.

Not necessary. The landing was firm, but gentle. The clicking sounds started again, the winch whirred once more, other softer sounds told of people moving quickly, but efficiently. Someone snipped the zip tie off my wrist and yanked me to my feet. Natsumi was pulled away from me. I heard her say a quiet little “Oh.”

Two men helped me over the pontoon. When I was standing on a solid, roughened surface, strong hands pulled my arms back behind me and another zip tie cinched both wrists together—unbreakable plastic handcuffs.

They took off the hood and I saw the topsides of an old metal vessel, with a center pilothouse, outriggers and cranes. Commercial fishing.

I didn’t see Natsumi, or anyone other than two of our three abductors. They pushed my head down to get through a hatch at the top of a narrow stairwell. Supported from behind, I barely made it down the steep passage without falling forward. Light from a rusty bulkhead fixture filled my eyes when I reached the bottom. Everything was coated in layers of paint, white on the walls and ceiling, grey on the floor. Rust showed in spots and around the seams. It was damp and the air was soft and heavy, perfumed with stale salt water.

I was guided down the passage to a door less than ten feet away. At the door, I was shoved face forward against the bulkhead, held in place by a strong hand at the back of my neck. Other hands gripped my wrist and put a cool piece of metal to each of my fingertips. A moment later, I felt a sharp pinprick in the crook of my arm. Taking blood.

Then one of the men cut off the zip tie and they gave me a gentle push into a bare room, closing and securing the door behind me. The room had a wooden bench against one wall, a big aluminum bucket about the size of a spaghetti pot in the opposite corner and a single, blazing light bulb inside a cage overhead. Plumbing and conduit ran across the ceiling. One of the water lines had a sprinkler head that looked new. A large drain was set in the middle of the floor.

That was it.

I sat on the bench and looked more carefully around the inside of the room. There was nothing to see but plain metal surfaces, textured by years of scraping and repainting the walls and building up the sand finish on the floor. The inside of the door was an uninterrupted plane—no latches, knobs or windows.

I looked around for another hour. Nothing changed. That was all there was. I lay down on the bench on my back with my knees up. The light bulb hurt my eyes, but closing them was little better. So I stared above me and studied the rows of randomly sized pipes attached with heavy metal fittings to the ceiling.

I traded this for time on my right side. Then my left. Then I sat up on the bench until that became unbearable, so I repeated the process. I sought other configurations but there was nothing that would make the room any better than painfully uncomfortable.

After a few hours of this, exhaustion began to war with my tattered nerves and sore eyes. I rolled on my right side, facing the wall, with my forearm across my eyes, shutting out the angry glare. Under the circumstances, I’d gained maximum comfort, and I think I slept for a short time.

Cramps drove me awake and onto my back again. I kept my arm over my face until stiffness in my shoulder forced it away. I sat up and swung my feet down to the floor. Head down, I opened my eyes and waited for my pupils to adjust.

I looked around the room again, but it had only become uglier and more forbidding. Of course, I told myself, that’s what’s supposed to happen. Anger started to creep up my throat, but I swallowed it down. That was supposed to happen as well, I thought. A loss of emotional control. That I wouldn’t give them.

I stayed upright on the bench, leaning back against the wall. I experimented with keeping my eyes closed for ten minutes, then opening them for about the same length of time. For whatever reason, it became easier to gaze into the intensely lit room. I breathed evenly and calmed my mind down to near torpor.

With new cramps showing up in new places, I lay down again on my back, holding one hand up to shield against the light. I focused on the sprinkler head as the only thing in the room not covered with uneven globs of paint. I studied it, admiring the neatly soldered coupling in the water line, the symmetrical flower-shaped deflector, the shiny metallic bulb—designed to shatter under the heat of a fire and ignite the system—within the sturdy brass frame.

Shiny metallic bulb?

I turned my head away and rested my eyes, then looked again. I once did market research for a company that made fire suppression equipment. I’d seen plenty of red, blue and yellow bulbs, but never metallic. I glanced away, staring at another section of the ceiling for a few minutes before letting my eyes travel slowly back across the ceiling and onto the sprinkler head.

The bulb wasn’t even shaped like a bulb, more of a cylinder. A cylinder that connected to the deflector, at the center of which was a tiny black dot.

I moved my eyes away and sat up again, concentrating on a new line of thought. My mind traveled from my flip-flops up my legs to the flimsy shorts and T-shirt. All soft material. I looked around the room for the hundredth time, coming to the same conclusion. There was very little there, and nothing detachable with bare hands. The wooden bench under me was four stout legs glued to a butcher-block slab. The bucket in the corner was just a bucket.

With a bucket handle.

I leaned back and rubbed my stomach, screwing up my face in discomfort. I bent forward, then back. I stood up and stretched to my full height, my palm against my midsection. I sat back down and tried to stay upright, but clearly was having trouble doing so.

I interrupted the routine for short periods, but then returned to worrying at my gut, burping and lying curled up on my side. After about an hour of this, I slid off the bench and went over to the opposite corner. I got on my hands and knees with my head over the bucket. My body jolted a few times and I shook my head, trying to cast off the sickness and pain. I sat back on my heels and held the bucket with two hands, pulling it up against my body.

Crimps at each end of the handle fit over raised rivets. The handle was strong, but flexible. The rivets were worn and only slightly bigger than the crimps that secured the handle. With my head drooping disconsolately, I studied how the relationship between the attachments shifted as the handle was raised and lowered a few inches. I tested the connections by jamming my thumbs between the handle and walls of the bucket. One side was sturdy, the other loosened by years of hard duty.

With no data upon which to estimate the odds, I decided they were fifty-fifty. Better than zero, less than a sure thing. Why not, I thought.

I took a few more deep breaths, composed myself and visualized the sequence of moves. My moves and the moves of others, impossible to predict.

I’m not a strong man, but I’m in reasonably good shape, and I know something about the destructive power of sudden, concentrated jolts, and the behavior of malleable material under uneven stress.

Or at least I convinced myself I did, as I grabbed the weak end of the handle, wrenched it free of the rivet, stood up with the bucket dangling by its good end, took two steps over to the bench and dragged it away from the wall. Then with as much force as I could gather, stood on the butcher-block slab and drove the crimped end of the bucket handle directly into the middle of the sprinkler head.

The miniature camera lens died with a little pop and the lightest spray of glass dusted the back of my hand. I stepped down off the bench, tossed the bucket into the corner, kicked the bench against the wall and sat back down.

“And fuck you,” I told whoever was at the other end of the hidden mics, undoubtedly still operating somewhere in the room, though for how long was now an open question.

C
HAPTER
2

I
didn’t have long to wait. Within minutes I heard the latches unlatch and saw the door swing open. An average-sized white man of early middle age, in a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up over thick biceps, olive drab slacks and hiking shoes, stepped over the raised threshold and into the little room.

His jaw was oversized, causing his lower bite to extend beyond his front teeth. With a high forehead and ski-jump nose, and buzz-cut brown hair, his face looked like a stern remark.

He was carrying a folding chair, which he flipped open so he could sit facing me. He pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket, held it for a moment as if considering what to do with it, then stuck it in his shirt.

“Touché,” he said. “Very clever.”

I said nothing.

He took the notebook back out, along with a pen, which he uncapped with his mouth, holding it there like a tiny cigar.

“I have a replacement for the camera, and now you’ll have to piss down the drain,” he said.

He jotted something in his notebook.

“Thirsty?” he asked, looking up.

I didn’t answer.

“You are. You haven’t had anything to drink for over twenty-four hours. You’d be amazed how quickly you can die of thirst. Food, no big deal. People go weeks without eating. But we need water. You lose a little vapor with every breath.”

He waited for me to speak. When I didn’t, he said, “I know you can talk because I heard you tell me to go fuck myself.”

“No I didn’t. I said ‘fuck you.’ ”

“A distinction without a difference. Are you thirsty?”

“Yes.”

He looked down at his notebook again. Then still clutching it, folded his arms and looked me in the eyes.

“You never asked the men why you were being carried off. That’s an odd lack of curiosity,” he said.

“I’m curious about the volcanism that formed the Caribbean archipelago, but I don’t bother interviewing the rocks.”

“Rocks don’t speak?”

“They may speak, but they probably don’t know.”

“You’re referring to our Special Forces.”

“They aren’t Special Forces.”

He tilted his head.

“Sez who?”

“They might have been at one time. Today they’re mercenaries.”

He smiled more through me than at me, as if recalling a private joke.

“And you know this?” he said.

“Their night vision equipment is a type commonly available, and more advanced than army issue, though it hasn’t achieved Mil Spec due to unsatisfactory failure rate and per unit cost. Okay for a civilian hunter, no good for supply officers dispensing thousands in remote parts of the world.”

He took out his pen and tapped it on his knee.

“But we did capture you. That should tell you something,” he said.

“It does, but not enough. That’s why I brought you here.”

“You didn’t bring,” he started to say, then realized I had, in fact, brought him there.

“The camera was the only way to monitor what was going on inside this room,” I said. “For all you knew, I was about to slash my wrists with the bucket handle. Somebody had to show up, and since it would take awhile to rig a new camera, you thought, what the heck, I’ll start the interrogation now. A little ahead of schedule, I’m guessing, since I’m not yet dying of hunger and thirst or hallucinating from lack of sleep. Which tells me you’re in a bit of a hurry.”

His face was blank, though a stream of thought ran behind his eyes.

“Ready for that water now?” he asked.

“I am.”

He left through the open door and returned seconds later holding a large bottle of water. I’d seen the brand in grocery stores around the Caribbean. French.

It wasn’t until the cool water hit my lips that I realized how thirsty I really was. I drank half the bottle, then almost immediately had to pee.

“You’re curious about your girlfriend, I imagine,” he said.

“Very.”

“What’s her name?”

“What’s mine?” I asked.

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know what you know. This is the game. Meter out little bits and pieces of information over a long period of time. Deprive me of sleep and basic necessities in order to wear me down, mentally and physically. Keep me guessing as long as possible in the hope I’ll betray myself through sheer confusion. Keep me isolated and then win my trust by appealing to the instinctive need for human contact. Flatter me, frighten me, maybe drug and torture me. All to extract something I might eagerly provide if you simply ask.”

He nodded, almost in disappointment, then referred to his notebook. The way he flicked randomly through the pages made me feel it was more of a prop than a legitimate tool.