Dog Blood

We turn right, and I trip through another doorway, stubbing my toe on a low step. This must be it. I’m led across a wide, open space by one of the men before being stood still-exposed, prone, and vulnerable. I feel him tugging on my chains, removing the shackles from my feet; then I hear the clink of metal on metal as another chain is wrapped tight around my waist, then attached to something behind me. I wait and listen as he walks away again, heading back in the direction from which we just came. I’m left here alone, swaying slightly, wrists still bound, my heavy legs still stiff and aching after endless hours of inactivity. I lean forward until the slack is taken up and the chains become tight enough to support my weight. I look down at my bare feet and the grubby, years-old carpet, crying pathetic tears of anger and desperation that bounce and splash off the floor. What will I see when they uncover my head? Will they even bother? Maybe they’ll just shoot me blind. I picture the two men standing at the other end of the room on either side of Mallon, both of them holding guns aimed in my direction. They could fire at any second. These might be my last few seconds of life. My legs feel like they’re about to give way, but I’m determined to stand proud and defiant and face this like a man. But this wasn’t how it was supposed to end…

The pillowcase is whipped off my head and dropped on the floor. I close my eyes for a split second, then open them wide again and look up. Mallon is backing away from me. He’s the only other person here. I’m standing alone in a large, open room, chained to the back wall by an industrial-strength bracket. The fear starts to lessen, and uneasy, tentative relief takes its place, but I know it’s not over. Just because he hasn’t killed me yet doesn’t mean he’s not still going to. The room is bright and cold. There are windows along one wall, but they’re too far away and too high to see through. I can see the very tops of distant trees and the squally, rain-filled sky, nothing else.

Mallon watches me intently, then turns and leaves. The temporary relief immediately disappears with him. What happens next? Is this another gas chamber? There’s no pipework or exhaust fans that I can see, but there are red and brown splashes and stains on the grubby wall behind me-blood, shit, and Christ knows what else. There are two filthy buckets over to my right, one of them full of water. Waterboarding? Torture? But I don’t have any secrets or restricted information, so what can they hope to get from me? Or is it worse than that? Is Mallon about to start playing masochistic games with me? Rape me, even? Whatever he decides, there’s nothing I can do about it. But when it happens I’ll fight the fucker until either he’s dead or I am.

He’s back, this time carrying more food and a pile of clothes. My last supper?

“Move back,” he says, watching me carefully. “Right up against the wall.”

I do as he says, shuffling backward but not risking turning around. Mallon edges forward to the spot where I was standing, watching me constantly. He puts down the clothes and the food, then moves back again. He sits down a safe distance away.

“Help yourself.”

Stu

“I said help yourself. The food tastes like shit today, but it’s warm and it’s better than nothing. And the clothes are from a dead man, I’m afraid. But hey, they don’t stink of piss like yours do!”

I don’t move. He gestures for me to come closer, and I slowly start to edge forward, moving like a bear circling a bloody lump of fresh meat in the middle of a trap. Is the food I’m shoveling into my mouth poisoned? It wasn’t before. I sit down cross-legged and start eating, too hungry to care. I can’t tell what it is I’m eating, and he’s right, it does taste like shit, but that doesn’t matter-it’s food. It’s finished too soon, and I wash it down with another bottle of stale, lukewarm water.

“Better?” Mallon asks, stretching out on the floor and appearing surprisingly relaxed. “I’ll get you some more later. There’s soap and water for you to wash with in one of those buckets over there. Scrub yourself down, Da

I don’t argue. I get up and move over to the buckets. They’re just inside the reach of the chains. I take off my soiled shorts and rip off my shirt (the shackles on my wrists preventing me taking it off any other way), then start to wash. There’s an inch of disinfectant at the bottom of the other bucket, and its purpose is obvious. I drag it closer to the wall, turn my back on Mallon, and squat and shit. I wipe myself clean on the torn clothes I’ve just discarded.

I wash myself as best I can, then dry off with a blanket that Mallon throws over to me. I pull on a pair of trousers that just about fit, then wrap the blanket around my shoulders to keep warm. I walk toward Mallon until the chains are at full stretch. Bastard just sits there and looks up at me. He knows I can’t reach him.

But then-to my complete amazement and disbelief-he throws a bunch of keys and some other stuff out of reach and stands up. He waits, psyching himself up; then he walks closer, so close we’re almost touching.

“All we need-” he starts to say, but I shut the fucker up. I grab his collar, spin him around, and slam him down on the floor. He tries to fight me off, but I brush him aside. He’s had this coming for too long. I drag him nearer to the back wall, his stumpy, pudgy, pathetic limbs flailing, then take up the slack from the chain around my right wrist and wrap it around his neck. He splutters, showering me with foul Unchanged spittle, and his already bulging eyes grow wider still. I pull tighter, feeling his life slipping away, focusing on the image of him lying dead at my feet.

“Kill me,” he says, his breath a hissing, choked whisper, “and you’ve lost everything.”

I pull harder, feeling the chain digging into his neck, constricting his windpipe and cutting off his air supply.

Then I stop. What did he say? Is he right…?

He flops over onto his front, gasping for breath, and starts to crawl away. He’s barely gone a yard when I snap myself out of this stupid malaise. I reach out, grab his leg, and drag him back, feeling myself getting stronger by the second. I roll him over and form my hand into a chain-wrapped fist. I’m ready to smash it into his face when he speaks again.

“Break the cycle.”

I punch him, just catching his jaw as he turns his head away. I straddle his out-of-shape body, a knee on either side to stop him moving, ready to end his miserable life. My left leg is wet. He’s pissed himself with fear.

“Now who stinks of piss?”

I lift my fist again, and he raises his arms to cover his face.

“Please, Da

I pull my fist back even farther. If I hit him this time I know I’ll finish him.

“Think about your family. Think about what you could do if you got out of here.”

Bullshit.

Is it?

He’s right about one thing-I’m still chained to the wall and I can’t escape this room. And I know he only mentioned my family for effect, but how can I do anything to help Ellis if I’m stuck here and left to starve? I can see the keys on the floor, well out of reach.

Against my better judgment-against everything I feel and believe-I stand up and step back. Mallon scrambles to safety, holding his mouth and spitting blood onto the floor. Is the fucker going to leave me here now? He staggers away, then stops. Still rubbing his jaw, he turns around and grins, blood covering his yellow-white teeth.

“You did it! I knew you could!”

“What?”

“You did it, Da

I don’t understand. He sits down, exhausted, breathing heavily. I walk as far as the chains will let me.